to the forge
in le of flowering nard.
ttle boy stares at ares.
taring hard.
In the shaken air
the moon moves her amrs,
and shows lubricious and pure,
s of in.
quot;Moon, moon, moon, run!
If the gypsies come,
t
to make ;
quot;Let me dance, my little one.
he gypsies come,
the anvil
ight.
quot;Moon, moon, moon, run!
I can feel;
quot;Let me be, my little one,
dont step on me, all starce!quot;
Closer comes the horseman,
drumming on the plain.
the forge;
his eyes are closed.
the olive grove
come the gypsies, dream and bronze,
their heads held high,
their hooded eyes.
O owl calls,
calling, calling from its tree!
the sky
he hand.
the forge,
all ting, crying.
the air is veiwing all, views all.
t the viewing.