She Who Dwelt Among the Sycamores

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She Who Dwelt Among the Sycamores

A Fancy

A little boy outside the sycamore wood

Saw on the wood’s edge gleam an ash-grey feather;

A kid, held by one soft white ear for tether,

Trotted beside him in a playful mood.

A little boy inside the sycamore wood

Followed a ringdove’s ash-grey gleam of feather.

Noon wrapt the trees in veils of violet weather,

And on tiptoe the winds a-whispering stood.

Deep in the woodland paused they, the six feet

Lapped in the lemon daffodils; a bee

In the long grass⁠—four eyes droop low⁠—a seat

Of moss, a maiden weaving. Singeth she:

“I am lone Lady Quietness, my sweet,

And on this loom I weave thy destiny.”