So that she scarce can breathe—­so fast
  Her pent up heart doth beat—­
When, faint along the corridor,
  Falleth the sound of feet:—­

Sounds lighter than silk slippers make
  Upon a ballroom floor, when sweet
Violin and ’cello wake
  Music for twirling feet.

O! ’neath an old unfriendly roof,
  What shapes may not conceal
Their faces in the open day,
  At night abroad to steal?

Even her taper seems with fear
  To languish small and blue;
Far in the woods the winter wind
  Runs whistling through.

A dreadful cold plucks at each hair,
  Her mouth is stretched to cry,
But sudden, with a gush of joy,
  It narrows to a sigh.

It is a phantom child which comes
  Soft through the corridor,
Singing an old forgotten song,
  This ancient burden bore:—­

“Thorn, thorn, I wis,
And roses twain,
  A red rose and a white,
Stoop in the blossom, bee, and kiss
  A lonely child good-night.

“Swim fish, sing bird,
And sigh again,
  I that am lost am lone,
Bee in the blossom never stirred
  Locks hid beneath a stone!”—­

Her eye was of the azure fire
  That hovers in wintry flame;
Her raiment wild and yellow as furze
  That spouteth out the same;

And in her hand she bore no flower,
  But on her head a wreath
Of faded flowers that did yet
  Smell sweetly after death....

Gloomy with night the listening walls
  Are now that she is gone,
Albeit this solitary child
  No longer seems alone.

Fast though her taper dwindles down,
  Heavy and thick the tome,
A beauty beyond fear to dim
  Haunts now her alien home.

Ghosts in the world, malignant, grim,
  Vex many a wood and glen,
And house and pool—­the unquiet ghosts,
  Of dead and restless men.

But in her grannie’s house this spirit—­
  A child as lone as she—­
Pining for love not found on earth,
  Ann dreams again to see.

Seated upon her tapestry stool,
  Her fairy-book laid by,
She gazes into the fire, knowing
  She has sweet company.

THE MILLER AND HIS SON

A twangling harp for Mary,
  A silvery flute for John,
And now we’ll play, the livelong day,
  “The Miller and his Son."...

“The Miller went a-walking
  All in the forest high,
He sees three doves a-flitting
  Against the dark blue sky: 

“Says he, ’My son, now follow
  These doves so white and free,
That cry above the forest,
  And surely cry to thee.’

“’I go, my dearest Father,
  But O!  I sadly fear,
These doves so white will lead me far,
  But never bring me near.’

“He kisses the Miller,
  He cries, ‘Awhoop to ye!’
And straightway through the forest
  Follows the wood-doves three.