She Who Dwelt Among the Sycamores: A Fancy

A little boy outside the sycamore wood Saw on the wood’s edge gleam an ash-grey feather; A kid, held by one soft white ear for tether, Trotted beside him in a playful mood. A little boy inside the sycamore wood Followed a ringdove’s ash-grey gleam of feather. Noon wrapt the trees in veils of violet weather, And on tiptoe the winds a-whispering stood. Deep in the woodland paused they, the six feet Lapped in the lemon daffodils; a bee In the long grass—four eyes droop low—a seat Of moss, a maiden weaving. Singeth she: “I am lone Lady Quietness, my sweet, And on this loom I weave thy destiny.”