I see him now sun-basking on a shelf
Of windy rock. He looks down on the deer.
Who flit like flowing light from rock to tree
And stand with ears alert before they drink.
I know a pool of purple rimmed with white
Where wild-fowl, warming for the morning flight.
Wait clustering and crying on the brink.
And I know hillsides where the partridge breeds. Aye-yee!
Chorus:
Aye-yee, aye-yah—the kites see far
(But also to the owls the visions change)—
No dawn is like the next, and nothing sings
Of sameness—very hours have wings
And leave no word of whose hand touched the range
Of Kara Dagh with opal and with cinnabar.
(3)
Aye-yee—I see—new distances beyond a blue horizon flung.
I laugh, because the people under roofs believe
That last year's ways are this! No roads are old!
New grass has grown! All pools and rivers hold
New water! And the feathered singers weave
New nests, forgetting where the old ones hung!
Aye-yah—the muddy highway sticks and clings.
But I see in the open pastures new
Unknown to busné[1] in the houses pent!
I hear the new, warm raindrops drumming on the tent,
I feel already on my feet delicious dew,
I see the trail outflung! And oh, my heart has wings!
- ↑ Busné—Gipsy word—Gentile, or non-gipsy.
