  ‘One who loved me passing well. Dark his eye, wild his face— Stranger, if in this lonely place Bide such an one, then, prythee, say I am come here to-day.’ ‘Many his like, Mistress Fell?’ ‘I did not look, so cannot tell. Only this I surely know, When his voice called me, I must go; Touched me his fingers, and my heart Leapt at the sweet pain’s smart.’ ‘Why did he leave you, Mistress Fell?’ ‘Magic laid its dreary spell.— Stranger, he was fast asleep; Into his dream I tried to creep; Called his name, soft was my cry: He answered—not one sigh. ‘The flower and the thorn are here; Falleth the night-dew, cold and clear; Out of her bower the bird replies, Mocking the dark with ecstasies: See how the earth’s green grass doth grow, Praising what sleeps below! ‘Thus have they told me. And I come, As flies the wounded wild-bird home. Not tears I give; but all that he Clasped in his arms sweet charity; All that he loved—to him I bring For a close whispering.’ |
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