THE ELFIN HILLS

O I shall go up to the Elfin Hills, Heather, and heath, and stone, ’Neath the cold red drift of the sunset cloud, For Folk in Housen are hard and proud, And ever I’ll pipe alone. For O, I went down to the Folk in House, Bold in the russet dawn, Drawn to the bone by the mortal call, The pink, and the white, and the rose, and all Of the sweet flesh they have on.

I met three children wi’ berry pails, Bound for the tangled briars Over the moors, and I piped a tune, Gathered their laughter an afternoon; They fled with the first lit fires: The wonderful fires the Folk in House Scatter like daffodils, Streaming in light from the ragged thatch, Rosy and warm by the lifted latch, And gay in the long gray hills.

’Twas over the fires I met my love, Piped to her soft and low, Sweet was the glint o’ her milk-white feet, Threading the fields, and the meadow-sweet, Like pearl in the afterglow. Ever I piped, and ever she came, But when my piping ceased, She fled from me with a startled cry, The little old moon toiled up the sky From out of an empty East.

Empty of heart, and empty of hand, ’Twas only the pipe they heard! Maybe my eyes they are too cold, The Fairy blood may be too old To mix with the blood it stirred. I will go back to the Elfin Hills, Wander and pipe alone, Answer the call of the peewit’s note Where sunshine wavers, and gray clouds float Past heather and heath and stone.