Gypsies Travelling

  The tribe prophetic with the eyes of fire
  Went forth last night; their little ones at rest
  Each on his mother's back, with his desire
  Set on the ready treasure of her breast.

  Laden with shining arms the men-folk tread
  By the long wagons where their goods lie hidden;
  They watch the heaven with eyes grown wearied
  Of hopeless dreams that come to them unbidden.

  The grasshopper, from out his sandy screen,
  Watching them pass redoubles his shrill song;
  Dian, who loves them, makes the grass more green,

  And makes the rock run water for this throng
  Of ever-wandering ones whose calm eyes see
  Familiar realms of darkness yet to be.