FOUR DUCKS ON A POND

    Four ducks on a pond,
    A grass-bank beyond,
    A blue sky of spring,
    White clouds on the wing;
    What a little thing
    To remember for years—­
    To remember with tears!

AEOLIAN HARP

    What is it that is gone, we fancied ours? 
    Oh what is lost that never may be told?—­
    We stray all afternoon, and we may grieve
    Until the perfect closing of the night. 
    Listen to us, thou gray Autumnal Eve,
    Whose part is silence.  At thy verge the clouds
    Are broken into melancholy gold;
    The waifs of Autumn and the feeble flow’rs
    Glimmer along our woodlands in wet light;
    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;
    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,
    Then departed through the wold. 
          Years ago, and years ago;
    And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.

    Three white Lilies, calm and clear,
    And they were loved by every one;
    Most of all, the Pastor’s Son,
    Listening to their gentle singing,
    Felt his heart go from him, clinging
    Round these Maids of Elfin-Mere. 
    Sued each night to make them stay,
    Sadden’d when they went away. 
          Years ago, and years ago;
    And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.

    Hands that shook with love and fear
    Dared put back the village clock,—­
    Flew the spindle, turn’d the rock,
    Flow’d the song with subtle rounding,
    Till the false ‘eleven’ was sounding;
    Then these Maids of Elfin-Mere
    Swiftly, softly, left the room,
    Like three doves on snowy plume. 
          Years ago, and years ago;
    And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.

    One that night who wander’d near
    Heard lamentings by the shore,
    Saw at dawn three stains of gore
    In the waters fade and dwindle. 
    Never more with song and spindle
    Saw we Maids of Elfin-Mere,
    The Pastor’s Son did pine and die;
    Because true love should never lie. 
          Years ago, and years ago;
    And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.