And yet joy seems a thing foredone
Forevermore in every place
Beneath the red rays of the sun;—
What is Christ’s mass that wrought man grace
Without the favor of love’s face!
The White Ladye
“The flax upon your distaff
Is yellow as your hair,
But why, on Christmas even,
Thus spin you, maiden fair?
“The joy-bells in the steeples
Are ringing clear and wide;
O stop the whirring spindle,
And put the flax aside!”
“Nay, but I may not, master,
Although I weary be,
Lest through the open shutter
Should peer the White Ladye;
“And find my treadle idle,
My flax in tangled fold,
And on the merry morrow
Forget her gift of gold.
“For to the slothful virgin
She causeth sorrowing,
But to the thrifty maiden
A blessing she doth bring!”
A soft touch at the shutter,—
A face divine to see!
It is the fairy spinner,
It is the White Ladye!
The Wizard People
Adown the ways of winter,
Above the vasts of snow,
With woven flame their sandals shod,
Through airy wastes by paths untrod,
The wizard people go.