For once to Faery harpingShe danced upon a hill,And through her brain and bosomThe music pulses still.
Her eyes are bright and tearless,But wide with yearning pain;She longs for nothing earthly,But O, to hear again,
The sound that held her listeningUpon her moonlit path!The rippling Faery musicThat filled the lonely rath.
Her lips, that once have tastedThe Faery banquet's bliss,Shall glad no mortal loverWith maiden smile or kiss.
She's dead to all things livingSince that November Eve;And when she dies in autumnNo living thing will grieve.
- T.W. Rolleston -