Armorel

WHEN within the rippling tide Shakes the silver-pointed moon, When the rainbow flies of noon All have died, When the bats go wheeling far, And the mournful owl has cried Twice or thrice a-down the glen Gray with gathering shade, and when Gates o' dream are held ajar,– From the alders in the dell, From the bracken fronds astir, Elfin voices call to her,– 'Armorel !' She shall glide the garden down, Treading softly, treading slow, And with silent feet shall go Past the Mary-lilies white, Past the pansies, gold and brown, Grown for her delight. One white moth her guide shall be, She shall follow where he flies, Patiently, with dream-lit eyes; Past the thyme and savoury, Past the mystic asphodel, For the voices in her ear Call her softly, call her clear,– 'Armorel !' Into valleys strange and dim, All unseen and all unknown, Fleetly shall she follow him, Fairy-led, alone. She shall hear within the brake Elfin crickets pipe and sing, While the elfin spiders make Sendal for her furnishing, Red as pimpernel. She shall see the dreams go by, Silver-pinioned, through the sky; Where she wanders none may tell, But the voices come and go, Calling sweetly, calling low, 'Armorel !'