Page:The Soul of a Century.djvu/117

  She was caught, and for a pastime, She was stuck on roasting spits. Any wonder that my fiddle, Weeps for her in angered fits?

Then I had an older brother, Tramping as all gypsies free, I know not why on the gallows He swings now beneath a tree.

Served him well, I keep repeating, Often when I sit up late, But this foolish string keeps sighing As if it bemoaned his fate.

And a wife I had, still see her, Blushing, struggling, angered, grim, She was stripped to dance the czardas For her master’s passing whim.

For the blush upon her features, He gave silks and shining gold, All old fables, my dear master, Fables best be left untold.”

Thus he finished, stroked his fiddle Smiled and neared the open door, “Wait there, tell me” the master shouted “Meaning of string number four.”

Then the gypsy paused and grimaced Looked out at the crimson sky, “You won’t need it, worthy master, No I need not tell you why.”

And he vanished. The haughty master Frightened in his black insides, Could not wake the sleeping servants, While flames rose on all four sides.

Your souls own life is like a heaving wave, ’tis hard to tell its origin or crest. The mind knows not to what mood to be a slave, When the wave shall rise, or when to seek its rest.

From lofty dreams, when skyward soars the soul, You will embrace coarse matter once again. And he who would Raphael’s fame extol, Will soon return to Giotto’s style and plane.