Many a time I've wondered where the gipsies horses go
When the caravans have faded from the lanes;
When all the world of Romany lies buried in the snow,
And not a rose of any fire remains.
Are there fairy-builded stables in the brown New Forest fern?
Are there elfin stalls in Epping where they stand?
Are they haltered in the heather by some haunted Highland burn,
Where the blue hares change to witches out of hand?
Are they feeding down the sunset in some opal land of dreams,
Where the meadows stretch by rivers running gold?
Is it there that we shall find them, all the piebalds and the creams.
All the collar-galled, the weary and the old?
Whatever roof may shelter them, whatever fields they tread,
God grant them rest forgetful of the chains,
Till once again through England all the roses blossom red
Of the Gipsy fires alight along the lanes!
