Poetry
The Gipsy
I ASK them ; They do not understand, These people In their little sea-girt land.
I tell them Of nights beneath a star, And jungles Where bear and panther are Of black rocks, And pine trees tall and slim ; Of grey dawns With camp-fires glowing dim.
I tell them Of sea shores where the palm sways gently In the sun-scorch'd mid-day calm ; Of deep pools Where faery fishes play, Of brown men Deep in the wave-flung spray.
. .
I tell them Of broad white roads that run To blue hills Beyond the setting sun ; Of domed mosques, And how the muezzin cries ; Of white towns, And caravan serais.
But still, still ; - They do-not understand, These people In their little sea-girt land.
* * * *
I saw her,
A gipsy, wild, untaught, • Her eyes flamed
The answer that I sought:
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