to the forge

    in le of flowering nard.

    ttle boy stares at ares.

    taring hard.

    In the shaken air

    the moon moves her amrs,

    and shows lubricious and pure,

    s of in.

    quot;Moon, moon, moon, run!

    If the gypsies come,

    t

    to make ;

    quot;Let me dance, my little one.

    he gypsies come,

    the anvil

    ight.

    quot;Moon, moon, moon, run!

    I can feel;

    quot;Let me be, my little one,

    dont step on me, all starce!quot;

    Closer comes the horseman,

    drumming on the plain.

    the forge;

    his eyes are closed.

    the olive grove

    come the gypsies, dream and bronze,

    their heads held high,

    their hooded eyes.

    O owl calls,

    calling, calling from its tree!

    the sky

    he hand.

    the forge,

    all ting, crying.

    the air is veiwing all, views all.

    t the viewing.