Poems (Bacon)/The gypsy maid
THE GYPSY MAID
She met them on the forest edge, A maid all brown and slim, She beckoned them to leave the path That girt the forest rim.
At first they shake their heads at her, At last they follow meek, She smiles at them with crimson lips, And sweet her bright eyes speak.
They go as in a faëry dream, The forest shuts them round, Save for the leaves that whisper low They hear no earthly sound.
The quiet miles have grown to leagues, The trees are strange and tall, They listen for the gypsy's steps And follow where they fall.
She sings a song of Wander-land, For very joy they weep: Adown the hills the dying day Soft like a cloud doth creep.
The forest folk have gone to rest, The trees are dark and high: The gypsy's song it crooneth soft Their mother's lullaby.
A misty moon now rides the clouds, They sink in happy sleep: The gypsy laughing low at them Slips in the forest deep.
They wake into a fearsome dawn, Lost in a gloomy fen: They follow no more gypsy maids In all their life again.