Tired I was; my head would go Nodding under the mistletoe (Pale-green, fairy mistletoe), No footsteps came, no voice, but only, Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely, Stooped in the still and shadowy air Lips unseen - and kissed me there. THE LOST SHOE Poor little Lucy By some mischance, Lost her shoe As she did dance - 'Twas not on the stairs, Not in the hall; Not where they sat At supper at all. She looked in the garden, But there it was not; Henhouse, or kennel, Or high dovecote. Dairy and meadow, And wild woods through Showed not a trace Of Lucy's shoe. Bird nor bunny Nor glimmering moon Breathed a whisper Of where 'twas gone. It was cried and cried, Oyez and Oyez! In French, Dutch, Latin, And Portuguese. Ships the dark seas Went plunging through, But none brought news Of Lucy's shoe; And still she patters In silk and leather, O'er snow, sand, shingle, In every weather; Spain, and Africa, Hindustan, Java, China, And lamped Japan; Plain and desert, She hops-hops through, Pernambuco To gold Peru; Mountain and forest, And river too, All the world over For her lost shoe. THE TRUANTS Ere my heart beats too coldly and faintly To remember sad things, yet be gay, I would sing a brief song of the world's little children Magic hath stolen away. The primroses scattered by April, The stars of the wide Milky Way, Cannot outnumber the hosts of the children Magic hath stolen away. The buttercup green of the meadows, The snow of the blossoming may, Lovelier are not than the legions of children Magic hath stolen away. The waves tossing surf in the moonbeam, The albatross lone on the spray, Alone know the tears wept in vain for the children Magic hath stolen away. In vain: for at hush of the evening, When the stars twinkle into the grey, Seems to echo the far-away calling of children Magic hath stolen away. THREE QUEER TALES BERRIES There was an old woman Went blackberry picking Along the hedges From Weep to Wicking. - Half a pottle- No more she had got, When out steps a Fairy From her green grot; And says, 'Well, Jill, Would 'ee pick ee mo?' And Jill, she curtseys, And looks just so. Be off,' says the Fairy, 'As quick as you can, Over the meadows To the little green lane That dips to the hayfields Of Farmer Grimes: I've berried those hedges A score of times; Bushel on bushel I'll promise'ee, Jill, This side of supper If'ee pick with a will.' She glints very bright, And speaks her fair; Then lo, and behold! She had faded in air.