Within thy shadow thou dost weave the shrouds

Of joy and great adventure, waxing cold,

Which once, or so it seemed, were full of might.

Some power it was, that lives not with us now,

A thought we had, but could not, could not hold.

O sweetly, swiftly pass'd:—air sings and murmurs;

Green leaves are gathering on the dewy bough;

O sadly, swiftly pass'd:—air sighs and mutters;

[25]

Red leaves are dropping on the rainy mould.

Then comes the snow, unfeatured, vast, and white.

O what is gone from us, we fancied ours?—

THE MAIDS OF ELFIN-MERE

When the spinning-room was here

Came Three Damsels, clothed in white,

With their spindles every night;

One and Two and three fair Maidens,

Spinning to a pulsing cadence,

Singing songs of Elfin-Mere;

Till the eleventh hour was toll'd,

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