The Man Who Trod On Sleeping Grass

In a field by Cahirconlish I stood on sleeping grass, No cry I made to Heaven From my dumb lips would pass. Three days, three nights I slumbered, And till I woke again Those I have loved have sought me, And sorrowed all in vain. My neighbours still upbraid me, And murmur as I pass, “There goes a man enchanted. He trod on fairy grass.' My little ones around me, They claim my old caress, I push them roughly from me With hands that cannot bless. My wife upon my shoulder A bitter tear lets fall, I turn away in anger And love her not at all. For like a man surrounded, In some sun-haunted lane, By countless wings that follow, A grey and stinging chain, Around my head for ever I hear small voices speak In tongues I cannot follow, I know not what they seek. I raise my hands to find them When autumn winds go by, And see between my fingers A broken summer fly. I raise my hands to hold them When winter days are near, And clasp a falling snowflake That breaks into a tear. And ever follows laughter That echoes through my heart, From some delights forgotten Where once I had a part. What love comes, half-remembered, In half-forgotten bliss ? Who lay upon my bosom, And had no human kiss ? Where is the land I loved in ? What music did I sing That left my ears enchanted Inside the fairy ring ? I see my neighbours shudder, And whisper as I pass: “Three nights the fairies stole him; He trod on sleeping grass.'