ELFESHILL

Fair is the gentle field that lies Between the wood both great and old, And the thin shaw whose saplings hold All shy and secret harmonies; There by that field they hear themselves Sigh spells into the air, above The place that hath an hill of elves Standing in the midst thereof. Round is the hill, and deep in flowers, And soundeth, with a pleasant tone, And many a burthen of his own, The enchanted Tune of Seven Towers: Upon his gracious head the eve Quickens the coloured light, and still When other hills are dark, doth leave A glimmer to the elfeshill. The dun cow Standeth half seen; The lily calf Moveth on the magic green: Which mayest thou love most, Their eyes or their calm breath? The wraith of all that thou hast lost Here doth hasten to his death. Yea, thus the ghost is fled, Like imagin’d ivory Over the hill’s head; Farewell his memory; Faintly the leaves chill Waft spells into the air, above The field that hath an elfeshill Standing in the midst thereof. 1918.