The snow falls deep; the forest lies alone; <br />The boy goes hasty for his load of brakes, <br />Then thinks upon the fire and hurries back; <br />The gipsy knocks his hands and tucks them up, <br />And seeks his squalid camp, half hid in snow, <br />Beneath the oak which breaks away the wind, <br />And bushes close in snow-like hovel warm; <br />There tainted mutton wastes upon the coals, <br />And the half-wasted dog squats close and rubs, <br />Then feels the heat too strong, and goes aloof; <br />He watches well, but none a bit can spare, <br />And vainly waits the morsel thrown away. <br />Tis thus they live--a picture to the place, <br />A quiet, pilfering, unprotected race.<br /><br />John Clare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/gipsies-3/
