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.