’TWAS a little man in green,
And he sat upon a stone;
And he sat there all alone,
Whispering.
“One and two,” so whispered he.
(’Twas an ancient man and hoar)
“One and two,” and then no more—
Never, “Three”.
Hawthorn trees were quick with May—
“Sir,” said I, “Good-day to you”!
But he counted. “One and two”
In strange way.
Fool I was—oh, fool was I
(Who should know the ways of them!)
That I touched his cloak’s green hem,
Passing by.
I was fey with spring and mirth—
Speaking him without a thought—
Now is joy a thing forgot
On the earth.
Ere the sweet thorn-buds were through,
Wife and child doom-stricken lay,
Cold as winter, white as spray—
“One and two!”
Now I seek eternally
That grim Counter of the fen,
Praying he may count again—
Counting, “Three”.
* In the bad chance of a meeting with the “Little People” the mortal is cautioned not to speak to them nor to touch, but to pass by quickly with averted eye.—Old tale.
The Enchantress
I FEAR Eileen, the wild Eileen—
The eyes she lifts to mine,
That laugh and laugh and never tell
The half that they divine!