ONE day a roving gypsy passed my door And she sang an air, A song of life, of the open road— Of the world, out there! The high hills hem my little house about On every side— Safe is the valley, and the hills, serene; My house is my pride. But I watch the dark shadow-horses race, When the wind clouds ride— How they hurry over the bare, brown hills To—the world outside! The river winds through the fields of grain That my man sows for me; It turns and twists like a writhing worm, But—it finds the sea! Oh, I was content till the gypsy came, Singing her song— Content, till she stopped and said to me: "You will not stay long." But—the world, they say, is a wicked place; It would frighten me! Yet ... should I take, some day, the river road, Would I find the sea? I watch the sun go down behind the hills And the twilight fall; It covers their cold, stark, silent forms With a purple pall. The light fades fast on the little road That will bring my man ... But the words of the song that the gypsy sang— How was it they ran? What the world is like there beyond the hills— Ah, what if I knew? Be still, my heart, be still! The gypsy said: "Soon you will go, too!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN THE HOME STRETCH by ROBERT FROST ON MILTON'S PARADISE LOST by ANDREW MARVELL AT PORT ROYAL by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER WHITE FOR MOURNING by AL-FATA AL-KAFIF COME HOME by WILLIAM HERVEY ALLEN JR. QUATORZAINS: 11. A CLOCK STRIKING AT MIDNIGHT by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |