The Spell Struck

She walks as she were moving
Some mystic dance to tread,
So falls her gliding footsteps,
So leans her listening head:

For once to Faery harping
She danced upon a hill,
And through her brain and bosom
The 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 listening
Upon her moonlit path!
The rippling Faery music
That filled the lonely rath.

Her lips, that once have tasted
The Faery 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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