Helen Whitney - Gypsy Verses

My blossoms of lilies and pansies,
Pale heliotrope, rosemary, rue,
All lull me with delicate fancies
As shy as the dawn and the dew.

But the ghost—Gods—the ghost in the gloaming,
How it lures me with whispers and cries,
How it speaks of the wind and the roaming,
Free, free, ’neath the Romany skies.

’Tis the hedge that is crimson with roses,
All wonderfully crimson and gold,
And caged in my beautiful closes
I know what it is to be old.

Her eyes are dark with unknown deeps,
Old woes and new despair,
Her shackled spirit feels the thong
That breaks her body bare.

The savage master of her days
Who mocks her passive pain,
How should he know her scorn of him.
Indifferent to the stain?

For in her heart she sees the glow
Of sacrificial fires,
A priestess of a mystic rite
Performed on nameless pyres.

The incident of shame and toil
She takes with idle breath,
For she remembers Africa,
And what to her is death?

The sky is more blue than the eyes of a boy,
A riot of roses entangles the year;
Ah, come to me, run to me, fill me with joy,
Dear, dear, dear.

The air is a passion of perfume and song,
The little moon swings up above, look above,
I cannot wait longer, I’ve waited so long,
Love, love, love.

Hide your eyes, Angels, beneath your gold phylacteries,
Israfel will charm you with the magic of his song:
Yet you will not smile for him, by reason of your memories,
For Lucifer is absent, and the cry goes up, How long!

For his expiation you would give your dreams and destinies,
Paradise is clouded by the measure of your pain;
Hide your eyes, Angels, beneath your gold phylacteries,
Till the jasper gates swing wide to bring him home again.

Out of the jungle he came, he came,
Man of the lion’s breed,
His heart was fire and his eyes were flame,
And he piped on a singing reed.

Spring was sweet and keen in his blood,
Singing, he sought his mate,
The wife for the life and time of his mood,
Formed for his needs by fate.

Over his reed he piped and sang,
His eyes were the eyes of a man,
But the jungle knew how his changes rang,
For his heart was the heart of Pan.

Wave buffeted and sick with storm,
The ships came reeling in,
The harbour lights were kind and warm,
And yet, so hard to win.

Like wings, the tired sails fluttered down,
While night began to fall,
Then came, sea-scarred, toward the town,
The smallest ship of all.

At last in harbour, safe and still,
No more she need be brave,
No more she’d meet the winds’ rough will,
The wanton of each wave.

The harbour lights! but where the moon
Should murmur blessings bright,
Clouded instead the dread typhoon,
That thundered down the night.

What curse the luring harbour bore
Of false security;
The port held desolation more
Than boasted all the sea.

When morning came with leering lip,
What death lay on her breast,
And oh! the little weary ship
Was wrecked with all the rest.

Grave as a little god, erect and wise,
He dares the years that open to his gaze.
Brave in his charming beauty, he portrays
A bright eternal youth, and in his eyes
Sweet moons that are no more. No sad surprise