POETRY.
GIPSY-NIGHT.
(Written for Pamela Bianco.) WHEN the feet of the rain tread a dance on the moves,
And the wind creeps through the rooks and the trees; And Dobbin has stabled his hooves In the warm bracken-litter that rustles about his knees: And when there is no moon, and the sodden clouds slip over Whenever there is no moon, and the rain drips cold, And folk with a shilling of money are bedded in housed;
And pools of water glitter on Farmer's mould—
Then pity Sally's Girls, with the rain in their blouses: —Martha and Johnnie, who have no money: —The small naked puppies that whimper against the bitches: —The small sopping children who creep to the ditches.
But when the moon is run like a red fox, Cover to cover, behind the skies; And the breezes crack in the trees on the rocks, Or stoop to flutter about the eyes Of one who dreams in the scent of pines At ease: Then would you not go foot it with Sarah's Girls In and out the trees P Or listen across the fire To old TinkersTolinnie and Martha his Rawnee In jutting Wales, or in orchard Worcestershire?
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