Tall she is, and straight and slender,
With soft hair beneath a cap
Pent and pinned; within her lap
Weep her lily hands, for work too tender.
She's a fairy, through transgression
Doomed to doff her webby smock,
Doomed to rise at six o'clock,
Doomed to bear a mistress's repression.
Once she romped in fairy revels
Down the dim moon-dappled glades,
Rode on thrilling honey-raids,
Danced the glow-lamps out on lawny levels.
Ere her trouble she was tiny:
'Tis her doom to be so tall;
Thus her hair no more will fall
To her feet, all shimmering and sunshiny.
O her eyes--like pools at twilight,
Mournful, whence pale radiance peers!
O her voice, that throbs with tears
In the attic 'neath the staring skylight!
Daylong does she household labour,
Lights the fires and scrubs the floors,
Washes up and answers doors,
Ushers in the dread suburban neighbour.
Then at night she seeks her attic,
Parts her clothes with those pale hands,
Slips at last her shift, and stands
Moon-caressed, most yearningly ecstatic,
Arms out pleads her condonation--
Hapless one! she gains no grace;
They whom fairy laws abase
Serve the utter term of tribulation.
Yet (though far her happy wood is)
Oft her folk fly in at night,
Pour sweet pity on her plight,
Comfort her with gossipry and goodies.
W. W. BLAIR FISH.
Oct. 1, 1916.