In Ercildoune

IN light of sunrise and sunsetting, The long days lingered, in forgetting That ever passion, keen to hold What may not tarry, was of old Beyond the doubtful stream whose flood Runs red waist-high with slain men’s blood.

Was beauty once a thing that died? Was pleasure never satisfied? Was rest still broken by the vain Desire of action, bringing pain, To die in vapid rest again? All this was quite forgotten, there No winter brought us cold and care, Nor spring gave promise unfulfilled, Nor, with the heavy summer killed, The languid days droop autumnwards. So magical a season guards The constant prime of a green June. So slumbrous is the river’s tune, That knows no thunder of rushing rains, Nor ever in the summer wanes, Like waters of the summer-time In lands far from the fairy clime.

Alas! no words can bring the bloom Of Fairyland, the lost perfume. The sweet low light, the magic air, To minds of who have not been there: Alas! no words, nor any spell Can lull the heart that knows too well The towers that by the river stand, The lost fair world of Fairyland.

Ah, would that I had never been The lover of the Fairy Queen. Or would that I again might be Asleep below the Eildon Tree, And see her ride the forest way As on that morning of the May!

Or would that through the little town, The grey old place of Ercildoune, And all along the sleepy street The soft fall of the white deer’s feet Came, with the mystical command, That I must back to Fairy Land!