The gnarled boughs hand darkling down,
And biers sweep my knees;
The moon is low, like a gold lamp,
Behind the twisted trees.
O dark and still are the wet fern
And trees where no birds nest;
What heed have I for night or day
Who ride a livelong quest?
There is no cockcrow in the dark,
No bleat from a far fold,
When the Forest Folk begin to stir
Under the starlight cold.
Rend your wild hair, you elfin things,
That peep from bush and tree;
I know what strangling arms you reach
Athwart the dusk to me.
Twist your fierce lips, you false fair things,
I know what dance you tread
To what drear tune ‘neath the cold moon
O’ nights wi’ the sheeted dead.
Cicely Fox Smith, 1904Filed under Poetry & Prose | Comment (1)