The Gypsy Woman

1901

The gypsy woman
Lives on the moor;
She sleeps in a tent,
With a curtained door.

Low is her dwelling
And hard her bed,
But the stars at night
Are a crown for her head.

Rough is her greeting:
From all that's human,
But the morning smiles
At the gypsy woman.

The wind is her harper
And brings from far
His sons of wooing
And shouts of war.

On the printed page
She need never look;
The changing sky
Is her holy book.

She knows not the call
Of church bells ringing;
The falling rain
Makes sweeter singing.

And the voice of the lark
At morn and even
Is a key to open
The gate of heaven.

—Westminster Gazette.