From The Birmingham Age Herald, November 14, 1914. By Theodosia Garrison.

The gypsies passed her little gate—
    She stopped her wheel to see
A brown-faced pair who walked the road
    Free as the wind is free;
And suddenly her tiny room
    A prison seemed to be.

Her shining plates against the walls,
    Her sunlit sanded floor,
The brass-bound wedding chest that held
    Her linen’s snowy store,
The very wheel whose running died—
    Seemed only chains she bore.

She watched the foot-free gypsies pass;
    She never knew or guessed
The wishful dream that drew them close—
    The longing in each breast
To some day know a home like hers
    Wherein their hearts might rest.