'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.