At last the hour is here
When I can wildly feel
The throbbing twilight near
The greater forces reel

Against a purple spray
Of sea-blown, fragile night,
That quivers on its way
And swells to scented height

To find its path a beam
Of incandescent light
Where twinkling bodies dream
The moon will soon glow white

And suffer arms of trees
To crumple on the ground
Or tremble in the breeze
And notes of birds will bound

From treetops to the mire
And wood-folks’ lore will pound
Beside a crackling fire
The wind will lure a sound

Of savage, Gypsy songs
That ring ‘til midnight dies
Of life where love belongs;
And violins whose cries

Will moan and laugh and sigh
Will find a beaten path
Where untamed echoes fly
The hilltops gleam in wrath

At sundown, Gypsies dance!
And let the woodlands hail
With everyone’s romance!
The violins will wail

To airs of Romany
And skirts will whirl and trail
The dew of Hungary.
The joyous hours will fail

To see the wind who grieves
That trees must all wave soon
Dry arms with rustling leaves
Beneath the Gypsy moon.

I pause beside the streams
I stand in sudden dread
And seek the hour that seems
Of broken ancient dead,

To leap through yielding fears
Without the brilliant tread
Of restless, truce-less years.
Escape is far ahead.

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Poetry by Eleonora