Fromhis cradle in the glamourieThey have stolen my wee brother,Roused a changeling in his swaddlingsFor to fret mine own poor mother.Pules it in the candle lightWi' a cheek so lean and white,Chinkling up its eyne so wee,Wailing shrill at her an' me.It we'll neither rock nor tendTill the Silent Silent send,Lapping in their waesome armsHim they stole with spells and charms,Till they take this changeling creatureBack to its own fairy nature—Cry! Cry! as long as may be,Ye shall ne'er be woman's baby!
Fromhis cradle in the glamourieThey have stolen my wee brother,Roused a changeling in his swaddlingsFor to fret mine own poor mother.Pules it in the candle lightWi' a cheek so lean and white,Chinkling up its eyne so wee,Wailing shrill at her an' me.It we'll neither rock nor tendTill the Silent Silent send,Lapping in their waesome armsHim they stole with spells and charms,Till they take this changeling creatureBack to its own fairy nature—Cry! Cry! as long as may be,Ye shall ne'er be woman's baby!
Fromhis cradle in the glamourieThey have stolen my wee brother,Roused a changeling in his swaddlingsFor to fret mine own poor mother.Pules it in the candle lightWi' a cheek so lean and white,Chinkling up its eyne so wee,Wailing shrill at her an' me.It we'll neither rock nor tendTill the Silent Silent send,Lapping in their waesome armsHim they stole with spells and charms,Till they take this changeling creatureBack to its own fairy nature—Cry! Cry! as long as may be,Ye shall ne'er be woman's baby!
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"Ahoy, and ahoy!"'Twixt mocking and merry—"Ahoy and ahoy, there,Young man of the ferry!"She stood on the stepsIn the watery gloom—That Changeling—"Ahoy, there!"She called him to come.He came on the green wave,He came on the grey,Where stooped that sweet ladyThat still summer's day.He fell in a dreamOf her beautiful face,As she sat on the thwartAnd smiled in her place.No echo his oar woke,Float silent did they,Past low-grazing cattleIn the sweet of the hay.And still in a dreamAt her beauty sat he,Drifting stern foremostDown—down to the sea.Come you, then: call,When the twilight apaceBrings shadow to broodOn the loveliest face;You shall hear o'er the waterRing faint in the grey—"Ahoy, and ahoy, there!"And tremble away;"Ahoy, and ahoy!..."And tremble away.
"Ahoy, and ahoy!"'Twixt mocking and merry—"Ahoy and ahoy, there,Young man of the ferry!"She stood on the stepsIn the watery gloom—That Changeling—"Ahoy, there!"She called him to come.He came on the green wave,He came on the grey,Where stooped that sweet ladyThat still summer's day.He fell in a dreamOf her beautiful face,As she sat on the thwartAnd smiled in her place.No echo his oar woke,Float silent did they,Past low-grazing cattleIn the sweet of the hay.And still in a dreamAt her beauty sat he,Drifting stern foremostDown—down to the sea.Come you, then: call,When the twilight apaceBrings shadow to broodOn the loveliest face;You shall hear o'er the waterRing faint in the grey—"Ahoy, and ahoy, there!"And tremble away;"Ahoy, and ahoy!..."And tremble away.
"Ahoy, and ahoy!"'Twixt mocking and merry—"Ahoy and ahoy, there,Young man of the ferry!"She stood on the stepsIn the watery gloom—That Changeling—"Ahoy, there!"She called him to come.He came on the green wave,He came on the grey,Where stooped that sweet ladyThat still summer's day.He fell in a dreamOf her beautiful face,As she sat on the thwartAnd smiled in her place.No echo his oar woke,Float silent did they,Past low-grazing cattleIn the sweet of the hay.And still in a dreamAt her beauty sat he,Drifting stern foremostDown—down to the sea.Come you, then: call,When the twilight apaceBrings shadow to broodOn the loveliest face;You shall hear o'er the waterRing faint in the grey—"Ahoy, and ahoy, there!"And tremble away;"Ahoy, and ahoy!..."And tremble away.
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Hesquats by the fireOn his three-legged stool,When all in the houseWith slumber are full.And he warms his great hands,Hanging loose from each knee.And he whistles as softAs the night wind at sea.For his work now is done;All the water is sweet;He has turned each brown loaf,And breathed magic on it.The milk in the pan,And the bacon on beamHe has "spelled" with his thumb,And bewitched has the dream.Not a mouse, not a moth,Not a spider but sat,And quaked as it wonderedWhat next he'd be at.But his heart, O, his heart—It belies his great nose;And at gleam of his eyeNot a soul would supposeHe had stooped with great thumbs,And big thatched head,To tuck his small mistressMore snugly in bed.Who would think, now, a throatSo lank and so thinMight make birds seem to warbleIn the dream she is in!Now hunched by the fire,While the embers burn low,He nods until daybreak,And at daybreak he'll go.Soon the first cock will 'lightFrom his perch and point highHis beak at the PloughboyGrown pale in the sky;And crow will he shrill;Then, meek as a mouse,Lob will rouse up and shuffleStraight out of the house.His supper for breakfast;For wages his work;And to warm his great handsJust an hour in the mirk.
Hesquats by the fireOn his three-legged stool,When all in the houseWith slumber are full.And he warms his great hands,Hanging loose from each knee.And he whistles as softAs the night wind at sea.For his work now is done;All the water is sweet;He has turned each brown loaf,And breathed magic on it.The milk in the pan,And the bacon on beamHe has "spelled" with his thumb,And bewitched has the dream.Not a mouse, not a moth,Not a spider but sat,And quaked as it wonderedWhat next he'd be at.But his heart, O, his heart—It belies his great nose;And at gleam of his eyeNot a soul would supposeHe had stooped with great thumbs,And big thatched head,To tuck his small mistressMore snugly in bed.Who would think, now, a throatSo lank and so thinMight make birds seem to warbleIn the dream she is in!Now hunched by the fire,While the embers burn low,He nods until daybreak,And at daybreak he'll go.Soon the first cock will 'lightFrom his perch and point highHis beak at the PloughboyGrown pale in the sky;And crow will he shrill;Then, meek as a mouse,Lob will rouse up and shuffleStraight out of the house.His supper for breakfast;For wages his work;And to warm his great handsJust an hour in the mirk.
Hesquats by the fireOn his three-legged stool,When all in the houseWith slumber are full.
And he warms his great hands,Hanging loose from each knee.And he whistles as softAs the night wind at sea.
For his work now is done;All the water is sweet;He has turned each brown loaf,And breathed magic on it.
The milk in the pan,And the bacon on beamHe has "spelled" with his thumb,And bewitched has the dream.
Not a mouse, not a moth,Not a spider but sat,And quaked as it wonderedWhat next he'd be at.
But his heart, O, his heart—It belies his great nose;And at gleam of his eyeNot a soul would suppose
He had stooped with great thumbs,And big thatched head,To tuck his small mistressMore snugly in bed.
Who would think, now, a throatSo lank and so thinMight make birds seem to warbleIn the dream she is in!
Now hunched by the fire,While the embers burn low,He nods until daybreak,And at daybreak he'll go.
Soon the first cock will 'lightFrom his perch and point highHis beak at the PloughboyGrown pale in the sky;
And crow will he shrill;Then, meek as a mouse,Lob will rouse up and shuffleStraight out of the house.
His supper for breakfast;For wages his work;And to warm his great handsJust an hour in the mirk.
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Wherethe bluebells and the wind are,Fairies in a ring I spied,And I heard a little linnetSinging near beside.Where the primrose and the dew are—Soon were sped the fairies all:Only now the green turf freshens,And the linnets call.
Wherethe bluebells and the wind are,Fairies in a ring I spied,And I heard a little linnetSinging near beside.Where the primrose and the dew are—Soon were sped the fairies all:Only now the green turf freshens,And the linnets call.
Wherethe bluebells and the wind are,Fairies in a ring I spied,And I heard a little linnetSinging near beside.
Where the primrose and the dew are—Soon were sped the fairies all:Only now the green turf freshens,And the linnets call.
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Therewere two Fairies, Gimmul and Mel,Loved Earth Man's honey passing well;Oft at the hives of his tame beesThey would their sugary thirst appease.When even began to darken to night,They would hie along in the fading light,With elf-locked hair and scarlet lips,And small stone knives to slit the skeps,So softly not a bee insideShould hear the woven straw divide.And then with sly and greedy thumbsWould rifle the sweet honeycombs.And drowsily drone to drone would say,"A cold, cold wind blows in this way";And the great Queen would turn her headFrom face to face, astonishèd,And, though her maids with comb and brushWould comb and soothe and whisper, "Hush!"About the hive would shrilly goA keening—keening, to and fro;At which those robbers 'neath the treesWould taunt and mock the honey-bees,And through their sticky teeth would buzzJust as an angry hornet does.And when this Gimmul and this MelHad munched and sucked and swilled their fill,Or ever Man's first cock could crowBack to their Faërie Mounds they'd go.Edging across the twilight air,Thieves of a guise remotely fair.
Therewere two Fairies, Gimmul and Mel,Loved Earth Man's honey passing well;Oft at the hives of his tame beesThey would their sugary thirst appease.When even began to darken to night,They would hie along in the fading light,With elf-locked hair and scarlet lips,And small stone knives to slit the skeps,So softly not a bee insideShould hear the woven straw divide.And then with sly and greedy thumbsWould rifle the sweet honeycombs.And drowsily drone to drone would say,"A cold, cold wind blows in this way";And the great Queen would turn her headFrom face to face, astonishèd,And, though her maids with comb and brushWould comb and soothe and whisper, "Hush!"About the hive would shrilly goA keening—keening, to and fro;At which those robbers 'neath the treesWould taunt and mock the honey-bees,And through their sticky teeth would buzzJust as an angry hornet does.And when this Gimmul and this MelHad munched and sucked and swilled their fill,Or ever Man's first cock could crowBack to their Faërie Mounds they'd go.Edging across the twilight air,Thieves of a guise remotely fair.
Therewere two Fairies, Gimmul and Mel,Loved Earth Man's honey passing well;Oft at the hives of his tame beesThey would their sugary thirst appease.When even began to darken to night,They would hie along in the fading light,With elf-locked hair and scarlet lips,And small stone knives to slit the skeps,So softly not a bee insideShould hear the woven straw divide.And then with sly and greedy thumbsWould rifle the sweet honeycombs.And drowsily drone to drone would say,"A cold, cold wind blows in this way";And the great Queen would turn her headFrom face to face, astonishèd,And, though her maids with comb and brushWould comb and soothe and whisper, "Hush!"About the hive would shrilly goA keening—keening, to and fro;At which those robbers 'neath the treesWould taunt and mock the honey-bees,And through their sticky teeth would buzzJust as an angry hornet does.And when this Gimmul and this MelHad munched and sucked and swilled their fill,Or ever Man's first cock could crowBack to their Faërie Mounds they'd go.Edging across the twilight air,Thieves of a guise remotely fair.
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Therewas an old womanWent blackberry pickingAlong the hedgesFrom Weep to Wicking.Half a pottle—No more she had got,When out steps a FairyFrom her green grot;And says, "Well, Jill,Would 'ee pick 'ee mo?"And Jill, she curtseys,And looks just so."Be off," says the Fairy,"As quick as you can,Over the meadowsTo the little green lane,That dips to the hayfieldsOf Farmer Grimes:I've berried those hedgesA score of times;Bushel on bushelI'll promise 'ee, Jill,This side of supperIf 'ee pick with a will."She glints very bright,And speaks her fair;Then lo, and behold!She has faded in air.Be sure old GoodieShe trots betimesOver the meadowsTo Farmer Grimes.And never was queenWith jewellry richAs those same hedgesFrom twig to ditch;Like Dutchmen's coffers,Fruit, thorn, and flower—They shone like WilliamAnd Mary's bower.And be sure Old GoodieWent back to Weep,So tired with her basketShe scarce could creep.When she comes in the duskTo her cottage door,There's Towser waggingAs never before,To see his MissusSo glad to beCome from her fruit-pickingBack to he.As soon as next morningDawn was grey,The pot on the hobWas simmering away;And all in a stewAnd a hugger-muggerTowser and JillA-boiling of sugar,And the dark clear fruitThat from Faërie came,For syrup and jellyAnd blackberry jam.Twelve jolly gallipotsJill put by;And one little teeny one,One inch high;And that she's hiddenA good thumb deep,Half way overFrom Wicking to Weep.
Therewas an old womanWent blackberry pickingAlong the hedgesFrom Weep to Wicking.Half a pottle—No more she had got,When out steps a FairyFrom her green grot;And says, "Well, Jill,Would 'ee pick 'ee mo?"And Jill, she curtseys,And looks just so."Be off," says the Fairy,"As quick as you can,Over the meadowsTo the little green lane,That dips to the hayfieldsOf Farmer Grimes:I've berried those hedgesA score of times;Bushel on bushelI'll promise 'ee, Jill,This side of supperIf 'ee pick with a will."She glints very bright,And speaks her fair;Then lo, and behold!She has faded in air.Be sure old GoodieShe trots betimesOver the meadowsTo Farmer Grimes.And never was queenWith jewellry richAs those same hedgesFrom twig to ditch;Like Dutchmen's coffers,Fruit, thorn, and flower—They shone like WilliamAnd Mary's bower.And be sure Old GoodieWent back to Weep,So tired with her basketShe scarce could creep.When she comes in the duskTo her cottage door,There's Towser waggingAs never before,To see his MissusSo glad to beCome from her fruit-pickingBack to he.As soon as next morningDawn was grey,The pot on the hobWas simmering away;And all in a stewAnd a hugger-muggerTowser and JillA-boiling of sugar,And the dark clear fruitThat from Faërie came,For syrup and jellyAnd blackberry jam.Twelve jolly gallipotsJill put by;And one little teeny one,One inch high;And that she's hiddenA good thumb deep,Half way overFrom Wicking to Weep.
Therewas an old womanWent blackberry pickingAlong the hedgesFrom Weep to Wicking.Half a pottle—No more she had got,When out steps a FairyFrom her green grot;And says, "Well, Jill,Would 'ee pick 'ee mo?"And Jill, she curtseys,And looks just so."Be off," says the Fairy,"As quick as you can,Over the meadowsTo the little green lane,That dips to the hayfieldsOf Farmer Grimes:I've berried those hedgesA score of times;Bushel on bushelI'll promise 'ee, Jill,This side of supperIf 'ee pick with a will."She glints very bright,And speaks her fair;Then lo, and behold!She has faded in air.
Be sure old GoodieShe trots betimesOver the meadowsTo Farmer Grimes.And never was queenWith jewellry richAs those same hedgesFrom twig to ditch;Like Dutchmen's coffers,Fruit, thorn, and flower—They shone like WilliamAnd Mary's bower.And be sure Old GoodieWent back to Weep,So tired with her basketShe scarce could creep.When she comes in the duskTo her cottage door,There's Towser waggingAs never before,To see his MissusSo glad to beCome from her fruit-pickingBack to he.As soon as next morningDawn was grey,The pot on the hobWas simmering away;And all in a stewAnd a hugger-muggerTowser and JillA-boiling of sugar,And the dark clear fruitThat from Faërie came,For syrup and jellyAnd blackberry jam.
Twelve jolly gallipotsJill put by;And one little teeny one,One inch high;And that she's hiddenA good thumb deep,Half way overFrom Wicking to Weep.
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"Happy, happy it is to beWhere the greenwood hangs o'er the dark blue sea;To roam in the moonbeams clear and stillAnd dance with the elvesOver dale and hill;To taste their cups, and with them roamThe field for dewdrops and honeycomb.Climb then, and come, as quick as you can,And dwell with the fairies, Elizabeth Ann!"Never, never, comes tear or sorrow,In the mansions old where the fairies dwell;But only the harping of their sweet harp-strings,And the lonesome stroke of a distant bell,Where upon hills of thyme and heather,The shepherd sits with his wandering sheep;And the curlew wails, and the skylark hoversOver the sand where the conies creep;Climb then, and come, as quick as you can,And dwell with the fairies, Elizabeth Ann!"
"Happy, happy it is to beWhere the greenwood hangs o'er the dark blue sea;To roam in the moonbeams clear and stillAnd dance with the elvesOver dale and hill;To taste their cups, and with them roamThe field for dewdrops and honeycomb.Climb then, and come, as quick as you can,And dwell with the fairies, Elizabeth Ann!"Never, never, comes tear or sorrow,In the mansions old where the fairies dwell;But only the harping of their sweet harp-strings,And the lonesome stroke of a distant bell,Where upon hills of thyme and heather,The shepherd sits with his wandering sheep;And the curlew wails, and the skylark hoversOver the sand where the conies creep;Climb then, and come, as quick as you can,And dwell with the fairies, Elizabeth Ann!"
"Happy, happy it is to beWhere the greenwood hangs o'er the dark blue sea;To roam in the moonbeams clear and stillAnd dance with the elvesOver dale and hill;To taste their cups, and with them roamThe field for dewdrops and honeycomb.Climb then, and come, as quick as you can,And dwell with the fairies, Elizabeth Ann!
"Never, never, comes tear or sorrow,In the mansions old where the fairies dwell;But only the harping of their sweet harp-strings,And the lonesome stroke of a distant bell,Where upon hills of thyme and heather,The shepherd sits with his wandering sheep;And the curlew wails, and the skylark hoversOver the sand where the conies creep;Climb then, and come, as quick as you can,And dwell with the fairies, Elizabeth Ann!"
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"Bubble, Bubble,Swim to seeOh, how beautifulI be."Fishes, Fishes,Finned and fine,What's your goldCompared with mine?"Why, then, hasWise Tishnar madeOne so lovely,Yet so sad?"Lone am I,And can but makeA little song,For singing's sake."
"Bubble, Bubble,Swim to seeOh, how beautifulI be."Fishes, Fishes,Finned and fine,What's your goldCompared with mine?"Why, then, hasWise Tishnar madeOne so lovely,Yet so sad?"Lone am I,And can but makeA little song,For singing's sake."
"Bubble, Bubble,Swim to seeOh, how beautifulI be.
"Fishes, Fishes,Finned and fine,What's your goldCompared with mine?
"Why, then, hasWise Tishnar madeOne so lovely,Yet so sad?
"Lone am I,And can but makeA little song,For singing's sake."
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Allbut blindIn his chambered holeGropes for wormsThe four-clawed Mole.All but blindIn the evening skyThe hooded BatTwirls softly by.All but blindIn the burning dayThe Barn-Owl blundersOn her way.And blind as areThese three to me,So, blind to Some-oneI must be.
Allbut blindIn his chambered holeGropes for wormsThe four-clawed Mole.All but blindIn the evening skyThe hooded BatTwirls softly by.All but blindIn the burning dayThe Barn-Owl blundersOn her way.And blind as areThese three to me,So, blind to Some-oneI must be.
Allbut blindIn his chambered holeGropes for wormsThe four-clawed Mole.
All but blindIn the evening skyThe hooded BatTwirls softly by.
All but blindIn the burning dayThe Barn-Owl blundersOn her way.
And blind as areThese three to me,So, blind to Some-oneI must be.
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"Won'tyou look out of your window, Mrs. Gill?"Quoth the Fairy, nidding, nodding in the garden;"Can'tyou look out of your window, Mrs. Gill?"Quoth the Fairy, laughing softly in the garden;But the air was still, the cherry boughs were still,And the ivy-tod 'neath the empty sill,And never from her window looked out Mrs. GillOn the Fairy shrilly mocking in the garden."What have they done with you, you poor Mrs. Gill?"Quoth the Fairy, brightly glancing in the garden;"Where have they hidden you, you poor old Mrs. Gill?"Quoth the Fairy dancing lightly in the garden;But night's faint veil now wrapped the hill,Stark 'neath the stars stood the dead-still Mill,And out of her cold cottage never answered Mrs. GillThe Fairy mimbling mambling in the garden.
"Won'tyou look out of your window, Mrs. Gill?"Quoth the Fairy, nidding, nodding in the garden;"Can'tyou look out of your window, Mrs. Gill?"Quoth the Fairy, laughing softly in the garden;But the air was still, the cherry boughs were still,And the ivy-tod 'neath the empty sill,And never from her window looked out Mrs. GillOn the Fairy shrilly mocking in the garden."What have they done with you, you poor Mrs. Gill?"Quoth the Fairy, brightly glancing in the garden;"Where have they hidden you, you poor old Mrs. Gill?"Quoth the Fairy dancing lightly in the garden;But night's faint veil now wrapped the hill,Stark 'neath the stars stood the dead-still Mill,And out of her cold cottage never answered Mrs. GillThe Fairy mimbling mambling in the garden.
"Won'tyou look out of your window, Mrs. Gill?"Quoth the Fairy, nidding, nodding in the garden;"Can'tyou look out of your window, Mrs. Gill?"Quoth the Fairy, laughing softly in the garden;But the air was still, the cherry boughs were still,And the ivy-tod 'neath the empty sill,And never from her window looked out Mrs. GillOn the Fairy shrilly mocking in the garden.
"What have they done with you, you poor Mrs. Gill?"Quoth the Fairy, brightly glancing in the garden;"Where have they hidden you, you poor old Mrs. Gill?"Quoth the Fairy dancing lightly in the garden;But night's faint veil now wrapped the hill,Stark 'neath the stars stood the dead-still Mill,And out of her cold cottage never answered Mrs. GillThe Fairy mimbling mambling in the garden.
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Down-adown-derry,Sweet Annie Maroon,Gathering daisiesIn the meadows of Doone,Hears a shrill piping,Elflike and free,Where the waters go brawlingIn rills to the sea;Singing down-adown-derry.Down-adown-derry,Sweet Annie Maroon,Through the green grassesPeeps softly; and soonSpies under green willowsA fairy whose songLike the smallest of bubblesFloats bobbing along;Singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry,Sweet Annie Maroon,Gathering daisiesIn the meadows of Doone,Hears a shrill piping,Elflike and free,Where the waters go brawlingIn rills to the sea;Singing down-adown-derry.Down-adown-derry,Sweet Annie Maroon,Through the green grassesPeeps softly; and soonSpies under green willowsA fairy whose songLike the smallest of bubblesFloats bobbing along;Singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry,Sweet Annie Maroon,Gathering daisiesIn the meadows of Doone,Hears a shrill piping,Elflike and free,Where the waters go brawlingIn rills to the sea;Singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry,Sweet Annie Maroon,Through the green grassesPeeps softly; and soonSpies under green willowsA fairy whose songLike the smallest of bubblesFloats bobbing along;Singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry,Her cheeks were like wine,Her eyes in her wee faceLike water-sparks shine,Her niminy fingersHer sleek tresses preen,The which in the combingShe peeps out between;Singing down-adown-derry.Down-adown-derry,Shrill, shrill was her tune:—"Come to my water-house,Annie Maroon:Come in your dimity,Ribbon on head,To wear siller seaweedAnd coral instead";Singing down-adown-derry."Down-adown-derry,Lean fish of the sea,Bring lanthorns for feastingThe gay Faërie;'Tis sand for the dancing,A music all sweetIn the water-green gloamingFor thistledown feet";Singing down-adown-derry.Down-adown-derry,Sweet Annie MaroonLooked large on the fairyCurled wan as the moonAnd all the grey ripplesTo the Mill racing by,With harps and with timbrelsDid ringing reply;Singing down-adown-derry."Down-adown-derry,"Sang the Fairy of Doone,Piercing the heartOf Sweet Annie Maroon;And lo! when like rosesThe clouds of the sunFaded at dusk, goneWas Annie Maroon;Singing down-adown-derry.Down-adown-derry,The daisies are few;Frost twinkles powderyIn haunts of the dew;And only the robinPerched on a thorn,Can comfort the heartOf a father forlorn;Singing down-adown-derry.Down-adown-derry,There's snow in the air;Ice where the lilyBloomed waxen and fair;He may call o'er the water,Cry—cry through the Mill,But Annie Maroon, alas!Answer ne'er will;Singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry,Her cheeks were like wine,Her eyes in her wee faceLike water-sparks shine,Her niminy fingersHer sleek tresses preen,The which in the combingShe peeps out between;Singing down-adown-derry.Down-adown-derry,Shrill, shrill was her tune:—"Come to my water-house,Annie Maroon:Come in your dimity,Ribbon on head,To wear siller seaweedAnd coral instead";Singing down-adown-derry."Down-adown-derry,Lean fish of the sea,Bring lanthorns for feastingThe gay Faërie;'Tis sand for the dancing,A music all sweetIn the water-green gloamingFor thistledown feet";Singing down-adown-derry.Down-adown-derry,Sweet Annie MaroonLooked large on the fairyCurled wan as the moonAnd all the grey ripplesTo the Mill racing by,With harps and with timbrelsDid ringing reply;Singing down-adown-derry."Down-adown-derry,"Sang the Fairy of Doone,Piercing the heartOf Sweet Annie Maroon;And lo! when like rosesThe clouds of the sunFaded at dusk, goneWas Annie Maroon;Singing down-adown-derry.Down-adown-derry,The daisies are few;Frost twinkles powderyIn haunts of the dew;And only the robinPerched on a thorn,Can comfort the heartOf a father forlorn;Singing down-adown-derry.Down-adown-derry,There's snow in the air;Ice where the lilyBloomed waxen and fair;He may call o'er the water,Cry—cry through the Mill,But Annie Maroon, alas!Answer ne'er will;Singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry,Her cheeks were like wine,Her eyes in her wee faceLike water-sparks shine,Her niminy fingersHer sleek tresses preen,The which in the combingShe peeps out between;Singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry,Shrill, shrill was her tune:—"Come to my water-house,Annie Maroon:Come in your dimity,Ribbon on head,To wear siller seaweedAnd coral instead";Singing down-adown-derry.
"Down-adown-derry,Lean fish of the sea,Bring lanthorns for feastingThe gay Faërie;'Tis sand for the dancing,A music all sweetIn the water-green gloamingFor thistledown feet";Singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry,Sweet Annie MaroonLooked large on the fairyCurled wan as the moonAnd all the grey ripplesTo the Mill racing by,With harps and with timbrelsDid ringing reply;Singing down-adown-derry.
"Down-adown-derry,"Sang the Fairy of Doone,Piercing the heartOf Sweet Annie Maroon;And lo! when like rosesThe clouds of the sunFaded at dusk, goneWas Annie Maroon;Singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry,The daisies are few;Frost twinkles powderyIn haunts of the dew;And only the robinPerched on a thorn,Can comfort the heartOf a father forlorn;Singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry,There's snow in the air;Ice where the lilyBloomed waxen and fair;He may call o'er the water,Cry—cry through the Mill,But Annie Maroon, alas!Answer ne'er will;Singing down-adown-derry.
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Inthe black furrow of a fieldI saw an old witch-hare this night;And she cocked a lissome ear,And she eyed the moon so bright,And she nibbled of the green;And I whispered "Wh-s-st! witch-hare,"Away like a ghostie o'er the fieldShe fled, and left the moonlight there.
Inthe black furrow of a fieldI saw an old witch-hare this night;And she cocked a lissome ear,And she eyed the moon so bright,And she nibbled of the green;And I whispered "Wh-s-st! witch-hare,"Away like a ghostie o'er the fieldShe fled, and left the moonlight there.
Inthe black furrow of a fieldI saw an old witch-hare this night;And she cocked a lissome ear,And she eyed the moon so bright,And she nibbled of the green;And I whispered "Wh-s-st! witch-hare,"Away like a ghostie o'er the fieldShe fled, and left the moonlight there.
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I sawthree witchesThat bowed down like barley,And straddled their brooms 'neath a louring sky,And, mounting a storm-cloud,Aloft on its margin,Stood black in the silver as up they did fly.I saw three witchesThat mocked the poor sparrowsThey carried in cages of wicker along,Till a hawk from his eyrieSwooped down like an arrow,Smote on the cages, and ended their song.I saw three witchesThat sailed in a shallop,All turning their heads with a snickering smile,Till a bank of green osiersConcealed their grim faces,Though I heard them lamenting for many a mile.I saw three witchesAsleep in a valley,Their heads in a row, like stones in a flood,Till the moon, creeping upward,Looked white through the valley,And turned them to bushes in bright scarlet bud.
I sawthree witchesThat bowed down like barley,And straddled their brooms 'neath a louring sky,And, mounting a storm-cloud,Aloft on its margin,Stood black in the silver as up they did fly.I saw three witchesThat mocked the poor sparrowsThey carried in cages of wicker along,Till a hawk from his eyrieSwooped down like an arrow,Smote on the cages, and ended their song.I saw three witchesThat sailed in a shallop,All turning their heads with a snickering smile,Till a bank of green osiersConcealed their grim faces,Though I heard them lamenting for many a mile.I saw three witchesAsleep in a valley,Their heads in a row, like stones in a flood,Till the moon, creeping upward,Looked white through the valley,And turned them to bushes in bright scarlet bud.
I sawthree witchesThat bowed down like barley,And straddled their brooms 'neath a louring sky,And, mounting a storm-cloud,Aloft on its margin,Stood black in the silver as up they did fly.
I saw three witchesThat mocked the poor sparrowsThey carried in cages of wicker along,Till a hawk from his eyrieSwooped down like an arrow,Smote on the cages, and ended their song.
I saw three witchesThat sailed in a shallop,All turning their heads with a snickering smile,Till a bank of green osiersConcealed their grim faces,Though I heard them lamenting for many a mile.
I saw three witchesAsleep in a valley,Their heads in a row, like stones in a flood,Till the moon, creeping upward,Looked white through the valley,And turned them to bushes in bright scarlet bud.
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Threedwarfs there were which lived in an isle,And the name of that Isle was Lone,And the names of the dwarfs were Alliolyle,Lallerie, Muziomone.Alliolyle was green of een,Lallerie light of locks,Muziomone was mild of mien,As ewes in April flocks.Their house was small and sweet of the sea,And pale as the Malmsey wine;Their bowls were three, and their beds were three,And their nightcaps white were nine.Their beds they were made of the holly-wood,Their combs of the tortoise's shell,Three basins of silver in corners there stood,And three little ewers as well.Green rushes, green rushes lay thick on the floor,For light beamed a gobbet of wax;There were three wooden stools for whatever they woreOn their humpity-dumpity backs.So each would lie on a drowsy pillowAnd watch the moon in the sky—And hear the parrot scream to the billow,The billow roar reply:Parrots of sapphire and sulphur and amber,Scarlet, and flame, and green,While five-foot apes did scramble and clamber,In the feathery-tufted treen.All night long with bubbles a-glistenThe ocean cried under the moon,Till ape and parrot, too sleepy to listen,To sleep and slumber were gone.Then from three small beds the dark hours' whileIn a house in the Island of LoneRose the snoring of Lallerie, Alliolyle,The snoring of Muziomone.But soon as ever came peep of sunOn coral and feathery tree,Three nightcapped dwarfs to the surf would runAnd soon were a-bob in the sea.At six they went fishing, at nine they snaredYoung foxes in the dells,At noon on sweet berries and honey they fared,And blew in their twisted shells.Dark was the sea they gambolled in,And thick with silver fish,Dark as green glass blown clear and thinTo be a monarch's dish.They sate to sup in a jasmine bower,Lit pale with flies of fire,Their bowls the hue of the iris-flower,And lemon their attire.Sweet wine in little cups they sipped,And golden honeycombInto their bowls of cream they dipped,Whipt light and white as foam.Now Alliolyle, where the sand-flower blows,Taught three old apes to sing—Taught three old apes to dance on their toesAnd caper around in a ring.They yelled them hoarse and they croaked them sweet,They twirled them about and around,To the noise of their voices they danced with their feet,They stamped with their feet on the ground.But down to the shore skipped Lallerie,His parrot on his thumb,And the twain they scritched in mockery,While the dancers go and come.And, alas! in the evening, rosy and still,Light-haired LallerieBitterly quarrelled with AlliolyleBy the yellow-sanded sea.The rising moon swam sweet and largeBefore their furious eyes,And they rolled and rolled to the coral margeWhere the surf for ever cries.Too late, too late, comes Muziomone:Clear in the clear green seaAlliolyle lies not alone,But clasped with Lallerie.He blows on his shell plaintive notes;Ape, parraquito, beeFlock where a shoe on the salt wave floats,—The shoe of Lallerie.He fetches nightcaps, one and nine,Grey apes he dowers three,His house as fair as the Malmsey wineSeems sad as cypress-tree.Three bowls he brims with sweet honeycombTo feast the bumble bees,Saying, "O bees, be this your home,For grief is on the seas!"He sate him lone in a coral grot,At the flowing in of the tide;When ebbed the billow, there was not,Save coral, aught beside.So hairy apes in three white beds,And nightcaps, one and nine,On moonlit pillows lay three headsBemused with dwarfish wine.A tomb of coral, the dirge of bee,The grey apes' guttural groanFor Alliolyle, for Lallerie,For thee, O Muziomone!
Threedwarfs there were which lived in an isle,And the name of that Isle was Lone,And the names of the dwarfs were Alliolyle,Lallerie, Muziomone.Alliolyle was green of een,Lallerie light of locks,Muziomone was mild of mien,As ewes in April flocks.Their house was small and sweet of the sea,And pale as the Malmsey wine;Their bowls were three, and their beds were three,And their nightcaps white were nine.Their beds they were made of the holly-wood,Their combs of the tortoise's shell,Three basins of silver in corners there stood,And three little ewers as well.Green rushes, green rushes lay thick on the floor,For light beamed a gobbet of wax;There were three wooden stools for whatever they woreOn their humpity-dumpity backs.So each would lie on a drowsy pillowAnd watch the moon in the sky—And hear the parrot scream to the billow,The billow roar reply:Parrots of sapphire and sulphur and amber,Scarlet, and flame, and green,While five-foot apes did scramble and clamber,In the feathery-tufted treen.All night long with bubbles a-glistenThe ocean cried under the moon,Till ape and parrot, too sleepy to listen,To sleep and slumber were gone.Then from three small beds the dark hours' whileIn a house in the Island of LoneRose the snoring of Lallerie, Alliolyle,The snoring of Muziomone.But soon as ever came peep of sunOn coral and feathery tree,Three nightcapped dwarfs to the surf would runAnd soon were a-bob in the sea.At six they went fishing, at nine they snaredYoung foxes in the dells,At noon on sweet berries and honey they fared,And blew in their twisted shells.Dark was the sea they gambolled in,And thick with silver fish,Dark as green glass blown clear and thinTo be a monarch's dish.They sate to sup in a jasmine bower,Lit pale with flies of fire,Their bowls the hue of the iris-flower,And lemon their attire.Sweet wine in little cups they sipped,And golden honeycombInto their bowls of cream they dipped,Whipt light and white as foam.Now Alliolyle, where the sand-flower blows,Taught three old apes to sing—Taught three old apes to dance on their toesAnd caper around in a ring.They yelled them hoarse and they croaked them sweet,They twirled them about and around,To the noise of their voices they danced with their feet,They stamped with their feet on the ground.But down to the shore skipped Lallerie,His parrot on his thumb,And the twain they scritched in mockery,While the dancers go and come.And, alas! in the evening, rosy and still,Light-haired LallerieBitterly quarrelled with AlliolyleBy the yellow-sanded sea.The rising moon swam sweet and largeBefore their furious eyes,And they rolled and rolled to the coral margeWhere the surf for ever cries.Too late, too late, comes Muziomone:Clear in the clear green seaAlliolyle lies not alone,But clasped with Lallerie.He blows on his shell plaintive notes;Ape, parraquito, beeFlock where a shoe on the salt wave floats,—The shoe of Lallerie.He fetches nightcaps, one and nine,Grey apes he dowers three,His house as fair as the Malmsey wineSeems sad as cypress-tree.Three bowls he brims with sweet honeycombTo feast the bumble bees,Saying, "O bees, be this your home,For grief is on the seas!"He sate him lone in a coral grot,At the flowing in of the tide;When ebbed the billow, there was not,Save coral, aught beside.So hairy apes in three white beds,And nightcaps, one and nine,On moonlit pillows lay three headsBemused with dwarfish wine.A tomb of coral, the dirge of bee,The grey apes' guttural groanFor Alliolyle, for Lallerie,For thee, O Muziomone!
Threedwarfs there were which lived in an isle,And the name of that Isle was Lone,And the names of the dwarfs were Alliolyle,Lallerie, Muziomone.
Alliolyle was green of een,Lallerie light of locks,Muziomone was mild of mien,As ewes in April flocks.
Their house was small and sweet of the sea,And pale as the Malmsey wine;Their bowls were three, and their beds were three,And their nightcaps white were nine.
Their beds they were made of the holly-wood,Their combs of the tortoise's shell,Three basins of silver in corners there stood,And three little ewers as well.
Green rushes, green rushes lay thick on the floor,For light beamed a gobbet of wax;There were three wooden stools for whatever they woreOn their humpity-dumpity backs.
So each would lie on a drowsy pillowAnd watch the moon in the sky—And hear the parrot scream to the billow,The billow roar reply:
Parrots of sapphire and sulphur and amber,Scarlet, and flame, and green,While five-foot apes did scramble and clamber,In the feathery-tufted treen.
All night long with bubbles a-glistenThe ocean cried under the moon,Till ape and parrot, too sleepy to listen,To sleep and slumber were gone.
Then from three small beds the dark hours' whileIn a house in the Island of LoneRose the snoring of Lallerie, Alliolyle,The snoring of Muziomone.
But soon as ever came peep of sunOn coral and feathery tree,Three nightcapped dwarfs to the surf would runAnd soon were a-bob in the sea.
At six they went fishing, at nine they snaredYoung foxes in the dells,At noon on sweet berries and honey they fared,And blew in their twisted shells.
Dark was the sea they gambolled in,And thick with silver fish,Dark as green glass blown clear and thinTo be a monarch's dish.
They sate to sup in a jasmine bower,Lit pale with flies of fire,Their bowls the hue of the iris-flower,And lemon their attire.
Sweet wine in little cups they sipped,And golden honeycombInto their bowls of cream they dipped,Whipt light and white as foam.
Now Alliolyle, where the sand-flower blows,Taught three old apes to sing—Taught three old apes to dance on their toesAnd caper around in a ring.
They yelled them hoarse and they croaked them sweet,They twirled them about and around,To the noise of their voices they danced with their feet,They stamped with their feet on the ground.
But down to the shore skipped Lallerie,His parrot on his thumb,And the twain they scritched in mockery,While the dancers go and come.
And, alas! in the evening, rosy and still,Light-haired LallerieBitterly quarrelled with AlliolyleBy the yellow-sanded sea.
The rising moon swam sweet and largeBefore their furious eyes,And they rolled and rolled to the coral margeWhere the surf for ever cries.
Too late, too late, comes Muziomone:Clear in the clear green seaAlliolyle lies not alone,But clasped with Lallerie.
He blows on his shell plaintive notes;Ape, parraquito, beeFlock where a shoe on the salt wave floats,—The shoe of Lallerie.
He fetches nightcaps, one and nine,Grey apes he dowers three,His house as fair as the Malmsey wineSeems sad as cypress-tree.
Three bowls he brims with sweet honeycombTo feast the bumble bees,Saying, "O bees, be this your home,For grief is on the seas!"
He sate him lone in a coral grot,At the flowing in of the tide;When ebbed the billow, there was not,Save coral, aught beside.
So hairy apes in three white beds,And nightcaps, one and nine,On moonlit pillows lay three headsBemused with dwarfish wine.
A tomb of coral, the dirge of bee,The grey apes' guttural groanFor Alliolyle, for Lallerie,For thee, O Muziomone!
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Insea-cold Lyonesse,When the Sabbath eve shafts downOn the roofs, walls, belfriesOf the foundered town,The Nereids pluck their lyresWhere the green translucency beats,And with motionless eyes at gazeMake minstrelsy in the streets.The ocean water stirsIn salt-worn casemate and porchPlies the blunt-snouted fishWith fire in his skull for torch.And the ringing wires resound;And the unearthly lovely weep,In lament of the music they makeIn the sullen courts of sleep.Whose marble flowers bloom for aye,And—lapped by the moon-guiled tide—Mock their carver with heart of stone,Caged in his stone-ribbed side.
Insea-cold Lyonesse,When the Sabbath eve shafts downOn the roofs, walls, belfriesOf the foundered town,The Nereids pluck their lyresWhere the green translucency beats,And with motionless eyes at gazeMake minstrelsy in the streets.The ocean water stirsIn salt-worn casemate and porchPlies the blunt-snouted fishWith fire in his skull for torch.And the ringing wires resound;And the unearthly lovely weep,In lament of the music they makeIn the sullen courts of sleep.Whose marble flowers bloom for aye,And—lapped by the moon-guiled tide—Mock their carver with heart of stone,Caged in his stone-ribbed side.
Insea-cold Lyonesse,When the Sabbath eve shafts downOn the roofs, walls, belfriesOf the foundered town,The Nereids pluck their lyresWhere the green translucency beats,And with motionless eyes at gazeMake minstrelsy in the streets.
The ocean water stirsIn salt-worn casemate and porchPlies the blunt-snouted fishWith fire in his skull for torch.And the ringing wires resound;And the unearthly lovely weep,In lament of the music they makeIn the sullen courts of sleep.
Whose marble flowers bloom for aye,And—lapped by the moon-guiled tide—Mock their carver with heart of stone,Caged in his stone-ribbed side.
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Thescent of bramble fills the air,Amid her folded sheets she lies,The gold of evening in her hair,The blue of morn shut in her eyes.How many a changing moon hath litThe unchanging roses of her face!Her mirror ever broods on itIn silver stillness of the days.Oft flits the moth on filmy wingsInto his solitary lair;Shrill evensong the cricket singsFrom some still shadow in her hair.In heat, in snow, in wind, in flood,She sleeps in lovely loneliness,Half-folded like an April budOn winter-haunted trees.
Thescent of bramble fills the air,Amid her folded sheets she lies,The gold of evening in her hair,The blue of morn shut in her eyes.How many a changing moon hath litThe unchanging roses of her face!Her mirror ever broods on itIn silver stillness of the days.Oft flits the moth on filmy wingsInto his solitary lair;Shrill evensong the cricket singsFrom some still shadow in her hair.In heat, in snow, in wind, in flood,She sleeps in lovely loneliness,Half-folded like an April budOn winter-haunted trees.
Thescent of bramble fills the air,Amid her folded sheets she lies,The gold of evening in her hair,The blue of morn shut in her eyes.
How many a changing moon hath litThe unchanging roses of her face!Her mirror ever broods on itIn silver stillness of the days.
Oft flits the moth on filmy wingsInto his solitary lair;Shrill evensong the cricket singsFrom some still shadow in her hair.
In heat, in snow, in wind, in flood,She sleeps in lovely loneliness,Half-folded like an April budOn winter-haunted trees.
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I haveheard a lady this night,Lissom and jimp and slim,Calling me—calling me over the heather,'Neath the beech boughs dusk and dim.I have followed a lady this night,Followed her far and lone,Fox and adder and weasel knowThe ways that we have gone.I sit at my supper 'mid honest faces,And crumble my crust and sayNought in the long-drawn drawl of the voicesTalking the hours away.I'll go to my chamber under the gable,And the moon will lift her lightIn at my lattice from over the moorlandHollow and still and bright.And I know she will shine on a lady of witchcraft,Gladness and grief to see,Who has taken my heart with her nimble fingers,Calls in my dreams to me:Who has led me a dance by dell and dingleMy human soul to win,Made me a changeling to my own, own mother,A stranger to my kin.
I haveheard a lady this night,Lissom and jimp and slim,Calling me—calling me over the heather,'Neath the beech boughs dusk and dim.I have followed a lady this night,Followed her far and lone,Fox and adder and weasel knowThe ways that we have gone.I sit at my supper 'mid honest faces,And crumble my crust and sayNought in the long-drawn drawl of the voicesTalking the hours away.I'll go to my chamber under the gable,And the moon will lift her lightIn at my lattice from over the moorlandHollow and still and bright.And I know she will shine on a lady of witchcraft,Gladness and grief to see,Who has taken my heart with her nimble fingers,Calls in my dreams to me:Who has led me a dance by dell and dingleMy human soul to win,Made me a changeling to my own, own mother,A stranger to my kin.
I haveheard a lady this night,Lissom and jimp and slim,Calling me—calling me over the heather,'Neath the beech boughs dusk and dim.
I have followed a lady this night,Followed her far and lone,Fox and adder and weasel knowThe ways that we have gone.
I sit at my supper 'mid honest faces,And crumble my crust and sayNought in the long-drawn drawl of the voicesTalking the hours away.
I'll go to my chamber under the gable,And the moon will lift her lightIn at my lattice from over the moorlandHollow and still and bright.
And I know she will shine on a lady of witchcraft,Gladness and grief to see,Who has taken my heart with her nimble fingers,Calls in my dreams to me:
Who has led me a dance by dell and dingleMy human soul to win,Made me a changeling to my own, own mother,A stranger to my kin.
To contents
Fromheight of noon, remote and still,The sun shines on the empty hill.No mist, no wind, above, below;No living thing strays to and fro.No bird replies to bird on high,Cleaving the skies with echoing cry.Like dreaming water, green and wan,Glassing the snow of mantling swan,Like a clear jewel encharacteredWith secret symbol of line and word,Asheen, unruffled, slumbrous, still,The sunlight streams on the empty hill.But soon as Night's dark shadows rideAcross its shrouded Eastern side,When at her kindling, clear and full,Star beyond star stands visible;Then course pale phantoms, fleet-foot deerLap of its waters icy-clear;Mounts the large moon, and pours her beamsOn bright-fish-flashing, singing streams;Voices re-echo; coursing by,Horsemen, like clouds, wheel silently.Glide then from out their pitch-black lairBeneath the dark's ensilvered arch,Witches becowled into the air;And iron pine and emerald larch,Tents of delight for ravished bird,Are by loud music thrilled and stirred.Winging the light, with silver feet,Beneath their bowers of fragrance met,In dells of rose and meadowsweet,In mazed dance the fairies flit;While drives his share the Ploughman highAthwart the daisy-powdered sky:Till far away, in thickening dew,Piercing the Eastern shadows throughRilling in crystal clear and still,Light 'gins to tremble on the hill.And like a mist on faint winds borne,Silent, forlorn, wells up the morn.Then the broad sun with burning beamsSteeps slope and peak and gilded streams.Then no foot stirs; the brake shakes not;Soundless and wet in its green grotAs if asleep, the leaf hangs limp;The white dews drip untrembling down,From bough to bough, orblike, unblown;And in strange quiet, shimmering and still,Morning enshrines the empty hill.
Fromheight of noon, remote and still,The sun shines on the empty hill.No mist, no wind, above, below;No living thing strays to and fro.No bird replies to bird on high,Cleaving the skies with echoing cry.Like dreaming water, green and wan,Glassing the snow of mantling swan,Like a clear jewel encharacteredWith secret symbol of line and word,Asheen, unruffled, slumbrous, still,The sunlight streams on the empty hill.But soon as Night's dark shadows rideAcross its shrouded Eastern side,When at her kindling, clear and full,Star beyond star stands visible;Then course pale phantoms, fleet-foot deerLap of its waters icy-clear;Mounts the large moon, and pours her beamsOn bright-fish-flashing, singing streams;Voices re-echo; coursing by,Horsemen, like clouds, wheel silently.Glide then from out their pitch-black lairBeneath the dark's ensilvered arch,Witches becowled into the air;And iron pine and emerald larch,Tents of delight for ravished bird,Are by loud music thrilled and stirred.Winging the light, with silver feet,Beneath their bowers of fragrance met,In dells of rose and meadowsweet,In mazed dance the fairies flit;While drives his share the Ploughman highAthwart the daisy-powdered sky:Till far away, in thickening dew,Piercing the Eastern shadows throughRilling in crystal clear and still,Light 'gins to tremble on the hill.And like a mist on faint winds borne,Silent, forlorn, wells up the morn.Then the broad sun with burning beamsSteeps slope and peak and gilded streams.Then no foot stirs; the brake shakes not;Soundless and wet in its green grotAs if asleep, the leaf hangs limp;The white dews drip untrembling down,From bough to bough, orblike, unblown;And in strange quiet, shimmering and still,Morning enshrines the empty hill.
Fromheight of noon, remote and still,The sun shines on the empty hill.No mist, no wind, above, below;No living thing strays to and fro.No bird replies to bird on high,Cleaving the skies with echoing cry.Like dreaming water, green and wan,Glassing the snow of mantling swan,Like a clear jewel encharacteredWith secret symbol of line and word,Asheen, unruffled, slumbrous, still,The sunlight streams on the empty hill.
But soon as Night's dark shadows rideAcross its shrouded Eastern side,When at her kindling, clear and full,Star beyond star stands visible;Then course pale phantoms, fleet-foot deerLap of its waters icy-clear;Mounts the large moon, and pours her beamsOn bright-fish-flashing, singing streams;Voices re-echo; coursing by,Horsemen, like clouds, wheel silently.Glide then from out their pitch-black lairBeneath the dark's ensilvered arch,Witches becowled into the air;And iron pine and emerald larch,Tents of delight for ravished bird,Are by loud music thrilled and stirred.Winging the light, with silver feet,Beneath their bowers of fragrance met,In dells of rose and meadowsweet,In mazed dance the fairies flit;While drives his share the Ploughman highAthwart the daisy-powdered sky:Till far away, in thickening dew,Piercing the Eastern shadows throughRilling in crystal clear and still,Light 'gins to tremble on the hill.And like a mist on faint winds borne,Silent, forlorn, wells up the morn.Then the broad sun with burning beamsSteeps slope and peak and gilded streams.Then no foot stirs; the brake shakes not;Soundless and wet in its green grotAs if asleep, the leaf hangs limp;The white dews drip untrembling down,From bough to bough, orblike, unblown;And in strange quiet, shimmering and still,Morning enshrines the empty hill.