 | A Child of the People |  |
152
V.
Stand silent, with meek hands against the side,—
Nay, do not pout,—and hear your fortune told.
Deem me a Gipsy woman brown and bold,
Whose nimble wit more than you think has spied,—
Hoards a week's whispers ere her craft be plied,
And needs not that her hand be crossed with gold.
Oh, she tells fortunes rarely, and hath sold
Philtres ere now to win a wished-for bride!
Nay, do not pout,—and hear your fortune told.
Deem me a Gipsy woman brown and bold,
Whose nimble wit more than you think has spied,—
Hoards a week's whispers ere her craft be plied,
And needs not that her hand be crossed with gold.
Oh, she tells fortunes rarely, and hath sold
Philtres ere now to win a wished-for bride!
“You have a hundred lovers; one is true,
And in the house of life your stars have met.
Ah, he would cross all stormiest seas for you,
And sends these songs to pay a birthday debt.”
White witch, begone! She reads her fortune through!—
Does the world guess you're not my sister yet?
And in the house of life your stars have met.
Ah, he would cross all stormiest seas for you,
And sends these songs to pay a birthday debt.”
White witch, begone! She reads her fortune through!—
Does the world guess you're not my sister yet?
| A Child of the People | |