The gipsies seek wide sheltering woods again, With droves of horses flock to mark their lane, And trample on dead leaves, and hear the sound, And look and see the black clouds gather round, And set their camps, and free from muck and mire, And gather stolen sticks to make the fire. The roasted hedgehog, bitter though as gall, Is eaten up and relished by them all. They know the woods and every fox's den And get their living far away from men; The shooters ask them where to find the game, The rabbits know them and are almost tame. The aged women, tawny with the smoke, Go with the winds and crack the rotted oak. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LYSISTRATA: HYMN OF PEACE; CHORUSES OF ATHENIANS AND SPARTANS by ARISTOPHANES IF I COULD TOUCH by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE MAXIMS FOR THE OLD HOUSE: THE BEST ROOM by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH THE POET'S TERROR AT THE BALIFFS OF EXETER, FR. FREEDOM: A POEM by ANDREW BRICE LOVE, DRINK, AND DEBT by ALEXANDER BROME VESPERS by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN A COLLOQUY WITH GOD by THOMAS BROWNE |