Bring a wizened child of seven

16

16

Reeking from the City slime,

Out of hell into your heaven,

Set her knee-deep in the thyme.

Feed her—clothe her—even so!

Set her on a fairy-throne.

When her eyes begin to glow

Leave her for an hour—alone.

You shall need no spells or charms,

On that hill-top, in that dawn.

When she lifts her wasted arms,

You shall see a veil withdrawn.

There shall be no veil between them,

Though her head be old and wise!

You shall know that she has seen them

By the glory in her eyes.

Round her irons on that hill

Earth has tossed a fairy fire:

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