Last of the Romany race,
Haply a king and queen,
Meal it with sorry grace
On the highway border of green.
August with mock of rain
For fire expected of her
Slaps the coarse grasses amain
In the faces neglected of her.
A kinship in sorrow groups
Their tattered forms together;
For miles the torn wheat stoops,
Moved with their mood and the weather.
They stare, and their hearts are choking;
For splendours that were of old
Are purples of knapweed soaking
And wreckage of ragwort gold.