  She walks as she were moving Some mystic dance to tread, So falls her gliding footstep, So leans her listening head; For once to fairy harping She danced upon the hill, And through her brain and bosom The music pulses still. But wide with yearning pain; She longs for nothing earthly, But O! to hear again The sound that held her listening Upon her moonlit path! The rippling fairy music That filled the lonely rath. Her lips, that once have tasted The fairy banquet's bliss, Shall glad no mortal lover With maiden smile or kiss. She's dead to all things living Since that November Eve; And when she dies in autumn No living thing will grieve. T.W. Rolleston |
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