said The Gypsy To The Shepherd Maid (Part Ii) Poem by David McLansky

The gypsy-poet was crushed in heart
That he should wound with loving dart,
A pretty, lonely, lovely thing
To whom with love he tried to sing.

He bit his tongue so not to speak,
He scanned her prison mountain peaks;
He saw their snow-capped icy crowns;
He stumbled as he turned around;

They lay beside a mountain stream;
Upon her lips he spread a cream;
He washed and combed her thistled hair;
He rubbed her feet with tender care;

He gave to her a silver ring,
And on the bank to her did sing;
Silly songs of mountain goats;
And as he sang he kissed her throat;

They naked stepped into the stream,
He called her not his Fairy Queen;
He told her not of her beauty,
Remembering a lover's duty;

Into the sparkling stream they stepped,
Stumbling, laughing, getting wet;
Her beauty stunned his aching sight;
He squeezed her hand a bit too tight;

They frolicked in the sun and water,
She laughed and teased until he caught her;
They lay upon the moss green bank,
And there they loved both sweet and frank;

He dressed her in her mountain rags;
He pulled a scarf out of his bag;
He tied it on her laughing head,
And not a word by either said.

He left her on the mountain trail;
She ran and waved from hill and dale;
The silence of the valleys rung
With all the songs he might have sung!