The Fairy Thorn

The merry maidens four have ranged them in a row,  

 Between each lovely couple a stately rowan stem,  

And away in mazes wavy like skimming birds they go,

 Oh, never caroll'd bird like them!  

But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze

 That drinks away their voices in echoless repose,  

And dreamily the evening has still'd the haunted braes,  

 And dreamier the gloaming grows.  

And sinking one by one, like lark-notes from the sky  

 When the falcon's shadow saileth across the open shaw,

Are hush'd the maidens' voices, as cowering down they lie  

 In the flutter of their sudden awe.  

For, from the air above and the grassy ground beneath,  

 And from the mountain-ashes and the old white thorn between,  

A power of faint enchantment doth through their beings breathe,

 And they sink down together on the green.  

They sink together silent, and, stealing side by side,  

 They fling their lovely arms o'er their drooping necks so fair,  

Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide,  

 For their shrinking necks again are bare.

Thus clasp'd and prostrate all, with their heads together bow'd,  

 Soft o'er their bosoms beating — the only human sound —

They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd,  

 Like a river in the air, gliding round.