On the slim wrists and ankles that flashed in their turn.
Ah, that was so long ago! Ages it seems,
And, now I return sad with life and its lore,
Will they flee my gray presence, the light-footed dreams,
And Will-o’-Wisp light me his lantern no more?
Where the bee’s hum seemed noisy once, all was so still,
And the hermit-thrush nested secure of her lease,
Now whirr the world’s millstones and clacks the world’s mill—
No fairy-gold passes, the oracles cease!