Or to wint'ry winds' sad howling,
Rustling leaves or birds' sweet singing,
Now resounds the saucy cymbal,
Now ring out song's playful verses.
On a rock, close to the fire
White-haired, hoary man is sitting,
Chieftain of the camping gypsies.
And within the glaring flicker
Shine his cloak's metallic buckles
And the knives from belt protruding. . . .
Straight before him, fair young woman
Part reclining on a carpet,
Shielding with one hand her forehead,
Dreamily stares in the fire.
Strings of dimly shining pearls
And her hair's abundant billows
Decorate, though part concealing
Restless waves of full-formed bosom.
Next to her, a youth is resting
With a knowing eye caressing
Chieftain's daggers shining edges. . . .
On the wall a boy is stretching
Gazing into hazy distance. . . .
There two gypsies play their cymbals
With whose clear metallic music
25
