She’d a gypsy heart, and home-staying feet:
She loved campfires – and an ingle seat.
When summer rain shook its tambourine,
She snapped her fingers, but locked the screens.
She caught her hair with a high jeweled comb-
Then whisked egg whites to angel foam.
If stars inveigle her into the night,
She returned, like a moth, to the candle light.
For the Romany call in the South wind’s throat,
A kettle’s hum was the antidote.
She’d a gypsy heart, but it couldn’t pull
Her home-staying feet from their chimney stool.
– Ethel Romig Fuller