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The gypsies passed her little gate-

She stopped her wheel to see-

A brown-faced pair who walked the road,

Free as the wind is free;

And suddenly her tiny room

A prison seemed to be.

Her shining plates against the walls,

Her sunlit, sanded floor,

The brass-bound wedding chest that held

Her linen’s snowy store,

The very wheel whose humming died,-

Seemed only chains she bore.

She watched the foot-free gypsies pass;

She never knew or guessed

The wistful dream that drew them close

The longing in each breast

Some day to know a home like hers,

Wherein their hearts mights rest.