Heavy and hard, as a gypsy knows.
Poor, yet ever—how poor!—remain;
Heart full of bitterness, full of pain.
Ah, how well would it be if there
I could but in yon furnace glare,
Till soft it grew, my love’s heart ply;
No man were then so rich as I.
XIV.
Underneath the greenwood-tree
Days I’ve waited three times three;