 | To the end of the trail |  |
THE GYPSY
I found her in a gypsy camp
Between the night and morning.
I was a roving, loving scamp,
She was a child of morning.
Between the night and morning.
I was a roving, loving scamp,
She was a child of morning.
She had the wood-dew in her hair,
The road-dust on her feet,
The sting and thrill of mountain air
Made all her motion sweet.
The road-dust on her feet,
The sting and thrill of mountain air
Made all her motion sweet.
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She moved with something like the grace
Of migratory birds.
The wander-longing in her face
Was like forgotten words.
Of migratory birds.
The wander-longing in her face
Was like forgotten words.
| To the end of the trail | |