(A Fairy)

White and golden here she lies;
Mouth-of-Rose was she.
Violets hide her sleeping eyes;
Leaves of rosemary
Keep her from the rainy skies,
Winter's cold or spring's surprise,
Brawling summer bee.
White and golden flowers we bring,
Gipsy-rose and broom:
Spider shall not snare her wing,
Yellow wasp not dare to sting
What we cover, while we sing,
Under drifts of bloom;
But bees bring her, murmuring,
Honey and perfume.
Oh my grief! her yellow hair
Tempts no wind to-day.
Folded round her forehead fair
All her tresses stay,
Stealing from the summer air
Half its gold away.
Suddenly the woods are bare-
Beechwoods that so shining were
In the moon of May.
She will never rise again,
Woman o' the Shee.
In the moonlight fair and fain
She will never be.
Poppies red and bearded grain,
Bending, bowing in the rain,
Sunrise-gold and sunset-stain
She will never see.
For her ears all songs are vain,
Tossed from tree to tree.
'Tis my grief that we must go
(Thus our doom is said)
Dancing lightly as the snow,
Or as autumn leaves that blow
Lightly, lightly to and fro,
With no tears to shed,
Though we loved her yellow head,
Though her yellow head is low
Where the tattered ragweeds grow,
Though the very squirrels know
Aoine's dead.