 | The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes |  |
THE GIPSY
Being, alas! thy boy forbids
That I should call thee maid—
Thou seemest like the summer flower,
The child of light and shade;
I would not have thee veil thy brow,
Nor bind thy streaming hair,—
Soft falls the sun-beam through the trees,
Light breathes the gentle air.
That I should call thee maid—
Thou seemest like the summer flower,
The child of light and shade;
I would not have thee veil thy brow,
Nor bind thy streaming hair,—
Soft falls the sun-beam through the trees,
Light breathes the gentle air.
The arching forest twines its arms
Above thy houseless head,
And clasping vines, and bending grass
Beneath thy steps are spread.
And fruits that ask not stooping toil
Are all around thee piled—
So Nature spreads her downy wing
To shield her simple child.
Above thy houseless head,
And clasping vines, and bending grass
Beneath thy steps are spread.
And fruits that ask not stooping toil
Are all around thee piled—
So Nature spreads her downy wing
To shield her simple child.
Long ere the gilded palace shone,
Or sprang the marble dome,
The pillars of the forest rose,
And there was woman's home;
All that her untaught wishes asked,
The field and mountain gave,
She only claimed from mortal hands
A cradle and a grave.
Or sprang the marble dome,
The pillars of the forest rose,
And there was woman's home;
All that her untaught wishes asked,
The field and mountain gave,
She only claimed from mortal hands
A cradle and a grave.
Let luxury swathe her pallid child
In purple and in gold,
And wrap the breast that faintly beats
Beneath its silken fold;
Though she may wreath the languid forms
That round her altar bow,
Thou canst not see the hidden thorns
That rend her votary's brow.
In purple and in gold,
And wrap the breast that faintly beats
Beneath its silken fold;
Though she may wreath the languid forms
That round her altar bow,
Thou canst not see the hidden thorns
That rend her votary's brow.
Live as thou art—if soft and clear
The rippling surface glide,
Ask not to feel the deeper streams
That freeze beneath the tide;
If thought can breathe amidst the wild,—
If passion there can burn,
Read what the light of Heaven may teach,
And wish no more to learn.
The rippling surface glide,
Ask not to feel the deeper streams
That freeze beneath the tide;
If thought can breathe amidst the wild,—
If passion there can burn,
401
And wish no more to learn.
Yes, they might train thine artless steps,
And deck they brow with pearls,
And weave the spoils of farthest earth
Among thy raven curls;
But they will see thee waste away,
Nor heed thy fading bloom,
And heartless mirth, and sullen guilt
Will trample on thy tomb.
And deck they brow with pearls,
And weave the spoils of farthest earth
Among thy raven curls;
But they will see thee waste away,
Nor heed thy fading bloom,
And heartless mirth, and sullen guilt
Will trample on thy tomb.
Go slumber on the eagle's cliff
Or in the lion's lair—
Sin has not sought the desert cave,
Or stained the mountain air;
But turn thee from the tainted crowd,
Thy wilds are still the same,
Nor blight thy yet unsullied heart
With aught of earthly shame.
Or in the lion's lair—
Sin has not sought the desert cave,
Or stained the mountain air;
But turn thee from the tainted crowd,
Thy wilds are still the same,
Nor blight thy yet unsullied heart
With aught of earthly shame.
| The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes | |