Poems (Piatt)/Volume 2/Passing the Gipsy Camp
< Poems (Piatt) | Volume 2
PASSING THE GIPSY CAMP.
So, here they are on the hills again;
They always come with the robins hither.
But where do they stay when the wind and rain
Make the women's faces wither?
They always come with the robins hither.
But where do they stay when the wind and rain
Make the women's faces wither?
They come from Egypt, as I have heard.
(Didn't Pharaoh look like that brown fellow?)
Yes, picturesque is a right fine word
For rags in scarlet and yellow.
(Didn't Pharaoh look like that brown fellow?)
Yes, picturesque is a right fine word
For rags in scarlet and yellow.
See the wide straw hats, the purplish hair,
The doubtful eyes, and the graceless graces;
The tents, and the wild fires, here and there,
In the greenest, shyest places.
The doubtful eyes, and the graceless graces;
The tents, and the wild fires, here and there,
In the greenest, shyest places.
The oldest, wisest of all comes here.
Last May her promise was sweet as honey,—
(I wish, with the interest of a year,
She would give me back my money!)
Last May her promise was sweet as honey,—
(I wish, with the interest of a year,
She would give me back my money!)
What did she say? Why, she only said,
Frowning a trifle, and bending double,
(Never a star had the grey cheat read,)
"Wait, lady, you have seen trouble."
Frowning a trifle, and bending double,
(Never a star had the grey cheat read,)
"Wait, lady, you have seen trouble."
How did she know? (Why, I think she knew,
For this one reason, and many others:)
Ob, she knew, at least, that I had seen you
At war with your valiant brothers!
For this one reason, and many others:)
Ob, she knew, at least, that I had seen you
At war with your valiant brothers!
She said my trouble would end, forsooth,
And so it will—when the moon is ready
To light my grave. So, it was the truth,
But—you look at me too steady!
And so it will—when the moon is ready
To light my grave. So, it was the truth,
But—you look at me too steady!
If you are afraid, then speak her fair
(She isn't a witch like Macbeth's witches;)
But—what should the rosiest children care
For glory and sorrow and riches?
(She isn't a witch like Macbeth's witches;)
But—what should the rosiest children care
For glory and sorrow and riches?
My good, weird woman, (O, what a noise
Of crowing, neighing, babbling and snarling!)
What will become of some poor little boys?———
Yes, the youngest is a darling!
Of crowing, neighing, babbling and snarling!)
What will become of some poor little boys?———
Yes, the youngest is a darling!
. . . There! she will turn one's head with the stuff
That dreams are made of, if one will let her!
I can tell you, and true enough,
Something as good, or better.
That dreams are made of, if one will let her!
I can tell you, and true enough,
Something as good, or better.
Never the President will you be,
None of you—not if you do grow older;
Nor the greatest of generals—bright with three
Stars or so, on the shoulder.
None of you—not if you do grow older;
Nor the greatest of generals—bright with three
Stars or so, on the shoulder.
But the pretty summers will come to you,
With blossoms to find and wings to follow;
And I'd say a world where strawberries grew,
Of a truth was not quite hollow.
With blossoms to find and wings to follow;
And I'd say a world where strawberries grew,
Of a truth was not quite hollow.
Sometimes you will come to grief, no doubt.
Most of us do. But we have to take it.
. . . Oh, I should have left the trouble out
Of this world—had I helped to make it!
Most of us do. But we have to take it.
. . . Oh, I should have left the trouble out
Of this world—had I helped to make it!
At last you will shut your eyes and forget
That red-birds fly, or that cow-bells tinkle;
And sleep, though the suns shall rise and set,—
Oh, longer than Rip Van Winkle!
That red-birds fly, or that cow-bells tinkle;
And sleep, though the suns shall rise and set,—
Oh, longer than Rip Van Winkle!