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.”