Page:Satanella (1932).pdf/37

 Or to wint'ry winds' sad howling,

Rustling leaves or birds' sweet singing,

Now resounds the saucy cymbal,

Now ring out song's playful verses.

On a rock, close to the fire

White-haired, hoary man is sitting,

Chieftain of the camping gypsies.

And within the glaring flicker

Shine his cloak's metallic buckles

And the knives from belt protruding

Straight before him, fair young woman

Part reclining on a carpet,

Shielding with one hand her forehead,

Dreamily stares in the fire.

Strings of dimly shining pearls

And her hair's abundant billows

Decorate, though part concealing

Restless waves of full-formed bosom.

Next to her, a youth is resting

With a knowing eye caressing

Chieftain's daggers shining edges

On the wall a boy is stretching

Gazing into hazy distance

There two gypsies play their cymbals

With whose clear metallic music