 | Mansoul or The Riddle of the World |  |
Come to wood-side, they halted on a row;
There hang, till their return, on oaken bough;
Their tyres of faerie-gilt with pearls bedight;
The subtil gold-thread work of Helmbrights smiths;
Which girt their locks, sheen as the harvest sheaf;
That fall down-forth, on their delicious necks.
There hang, till their return, on oaken bough;
Their tyres of faerie-gilt with pearls bedight;
The subtil gold-thread work of Helmbrights smiths;
Which girt their locks, sheen as the harvest sheaf;
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Kissed their white palms, to clear cóld stars on loft;
And linked their sister-hands, in sweet accord;
With smiling looks, they foot the midnight sod:
To tinkling harmonies, fays can only hear;
Of serene moonbeams, woven of winds breath.
Print of their faerie soles, where rounds they tread;
May yet be seen in many a wood-side mead:
But chiefly in their fair lawns, which faeries love.
And linked their sister-hands, in sweet accord;
With smiling looks, they foot the midnight sod:
To tinkling harmonies, fays can only hear;
Of serene moonbeams, woven of winds breath.
Print of their faerie soles, where rounds they tread;
May yet be seen in many a wood-side mead:
But chiefly in their fair lawns, which faeries love.
| Mansoul or The Riddle of the World | |