Jacinth, Jacinth, where do you go
With your eyes like spring and your step like snow?
Who wrought, my Jacinth, your yellow hair
In the self-same colour that daffodils wear
When they open first to the kiss of spring
And have heard no whisper of withering?
Who gave you, Jacinth, your violet eyes
Where sorrow close beside laughter lies?
Who made your face like a soft white rose
And your mouth like a blossom that no bee knows?
Who made you timid and sweet and fair
As a snowdrop first in the wintry air?
Jacinth, turn to us, speak and say
Are you fire or air, or sweet human clay?
O little dumb mouth, will you never part
Your twin red leaves though I break my heart?
O small deaf ears, will you open not
To any whisper of love begot?
My fingers plead, and your fingers say
Half in earnest, and half in play,
'I 'm half a fairy, and no one knows
The way to hold when a fairy goes.'
And are you going, and must you pass,
Little sweet Jacinth? Then, alas!
I said, alas! that the child must go
To the light above from the dusk below;
I prayed wild prayers, but at last it fell
That Jacinth went, and I said ''Tis well.'
She never will hearken a cruel word
That other women will hear and have heard;
She never will say a word less sweet
Than the small red mouth that utters it;
She never will change from gold to clay.
Jacinth, sweet, you are well away!