She sits within the shadow of the vine,
A swart young gypsy queen with turbaned head;
About her knees her dusky hands are spread;
Her somber eyes with inward ardors shine.
The woodbine leaves already glow like wine;
The parched blooms droop above their dusty bed;
And still she sits, as one among the dead,
And o'er the mown fields stares and makes no sign.
An alien from a torrid clime, she knows
Full well her empery is brief, and soon
Where the shrunk stream amid its pebbles flows,
And the cicada's challenge stabs the noon,
Winter by night shall pile its drifting snows,
And the frore North chant loud his icy rune.
