The second, that was a chestnut man, Out of his bundle draws a bone: "Lo, by the belfry of St. Ann, And all my breakfast gone!" The third, that was a yellow man, Out of his bundle picks a groat, "La, by the Angel of St. Ann, And I must go without." That changeling, lean and icy-lipped, Touched crust, and bone, and groat, and lo! Beneath her finger taper-tipped The magic all ran through. Instead of crust a peacock pie, Instead of bone sweet venison, Instead of groat a white lily With seven blooms thereon. And each fair cup was deep with wine: Such was the changeling's charity, The sweet feast was enough for nine, But not too much for three. O toothsome meat in jelly froze! O tender haunch of elfin stag! O rich the odour that arose! O plump with scraps each bag! There, in the daybreak gold and wild, Each merry-hearted beggar man Drank deep unto the fairy child, And blessed the good St. Ann. THE STRANGER In the nook of a wood where a pool freshed with dew Glassed, daybreak till evening, blue sky glimpsing through Then a star; or a slip of May-moon silver-white, Thridding softly aloof the quiet of night, Was a thicket of flowers. Willow herb, mint, pale speedwell and rattle Water hemlock and sundew--to the wind's tittle-tattle They nodded, dreamed, swayed in jocund delight, In beauty and sweetness arrayed, still and bright. By turn scampered rabbit; trotted fox; bee and bird Paused droning, sang shrill, and the fair water stirred. Plashed green frog, or some brisk little flickering fish-- Gudgeon, stickleback, minnow--set the ripples a-swish. A lone pool, a pool grass-fringed, crystal-clear: Deep, placid, and cool in the sweet of the year; Edge-parched when the sun to the Dog Days drew near; And with winter's bleak rime hard as glass, robed in snow, The whole wild-wood sleeping, and nothing a-blow But the wind from the North--bringing snow. That is all. Save that one long, sweet, June night-tide straying, The harsh hemlock's pale umbelliferous bloom Tenting nook, dense with fragrance and secret with gloom, In a beaming of moon-colored light faintly raying, On buds orbed with dew phosphorescently playing, Came a Stranger--still-footed, feat-fingered, clear face Unhumanly lovely: ... and supped in that place. [Illustration] THE RUIN [Illustration] When the last colours of the day Have from their burning ebbed away, About that ruin, cold and lone, The cricket shrills from stone to stone; And scattering o'er its darkened green, Bands of the fairies may be seen, Chattering like grasshoppers, their feet Dancing a thistledown dance round it: While the great gold of the mild moon Tinges their tiny acorn shoon.