"O speak to us, and break the spell!"
"The spell is broken," she replied.
"I crossed the running brook, it fell,
It could not bide.
"And I have brought a budding world,
Of orchis spires and daisies rank,
And ferny plumes but half uncurled,
From yonder bank;
"And I shall weave of them a crown,
And at the well-head launch it free,
That so the brook may float it down,
And out to sea.
"There may it to some English hands
From fairy meadow seem to come;
The fairyest of fairy lands—
The land of home."
"Weave on," he said, and as she wove
We told how currents in the deep,
With branches from a lemon grove,
Blue bergs will sweep.
And messages from shipwrecked folk
Will navigate the moon-led main,
And painted boards of splintered oak
Their port regain.
Then floated out by vagrant thought,
My soul beheld on torrid sand
The wasteful water set at nought
Man's skilful hand,
And suck out gold-dust from the box,
And wash it down in weedy whirls,
And split the wine-keg on the rocks,
And lose the pearls.
"Ah! why to that which needs it not,"
Methought, "should costly things be given?
How much is wasted, wrecked, forgot,
On this side heaven!"
So musing, did mine ears awake
To maiden tones of sweet reserve,
And manly speech that seemed to make
The steady curve