Blooms of the Berry Part 22

I.

Ai me! why stood I on the bent When Summer wept o'er dying June!

I saw the Fairy Folk ride faint Aneath the moon.

II.

The haw-trees hedged the russet lea Where cuckoo-buds waxed rich with gold; The wealthy corn rose yellowly Endlong the wold.

III.

Betwixt the haw-trees and the mead "The Fairy Rade" came glimmering on; A creamy cavalcade did speed O'er the green lawn.

IV.

The night was ringing with their reins; Loud laughed they till the cricket hushed; The whistles on their coursers' manes Shrill music gushed.

V.

The whistles tagged their horses' manes All crystal clear; on these a wind Forever played, and waked the plains Before, behind.

VI.

These flute-notes and the Fairy song Took the dim holts with many a qualm, And eke their silver bridles rung A far-off psalm.

VII.

All rid upon pale ouphen steeds With flying tails, uncouthly seen; Each wore a scarf athwart his weeds Of freshest green.

VIII.

And aye a beam of silver light Fairer than moons.h.i.+ne danced aboon, And shook their locks--a glimmering white Not of the moon.

IX.

Small were they that the hare-bell's blue Had helmeted each tiny head; Save one damsel, who, tall as two, The Faeries led.

X.

Long tresses floated from a tire Of diamond sparks, which cast a light, And o'er her white sark shook, in fire Rippling the night.

XI.

I would have thrown me 'neath her feet, And told her all my dole and pain, There while her rein was jingling sweet O'er all the plain.

XII.

Alas! a black and thwarting c.o.c.k Crew from the thatch with long-necked cry-- The Elfin queen and her wee flock In the night did die.

IN AN OLD GARDEN.

The Autumn pines and fades Upon the withered trees; And over there, a choked despair, You hear the moaning breeze.

The violets are dead; Dead the tall hollyhocks, That hang like rags on the wind-crushed flags, And the lilies' livid stocks.

The wild gourd clambers free Where the clematis was wont; Where nenuphars waxed thick as stars Rank weeds stagnate the font.

Yet in my dreams I hear A tinkling mandolin; In the dark blue light of a fragrant night Float in and out and in.

And the dewy vine that climbs To my lady's lattice sways, And behind the vine there come to s.h.i.+ne Two pleasant eyes and gaze.

And now a perfume comes, A swift Favonian gust; And the shrinking gra.s.s where it doth pa.s.s Bows slave-like to the dust.

In dreams I see her drift A mist of drapery; In her jeweled shawl divinely tall, A Dian deity.

The moon broods high and full O'er the broken Psyche cold, And there she stands her dainty hands And thin wrists warm with gold.

But lovers now are dead, The air is stung with frosts; And naught may you find save the homeless wind, Dead violets' ghosts and ghosts.