The pine wood ceased on the crest of the down;
Flames of heather and furze had died
With the vanished light of the burning day,
And all was still; but far away
Glimmered the roofs of a fairy town.
The exile climbed from the sombre trees
To the open hill; and the rags he bore,
Fluttering out along the sky,
Black as all else that passed thereby,
Waved like slashed trappings in the breeze.
He paused: that happy and halcyon land
Wavered with colour like the sea,
Trembled with hues we cannot know,
Gleamed with many a spire of snow
Fashioned from air by an airy hand.
He watched it there with his half-shut eyes
Till the rapt glow in heaven did fade,
And every roof all gemmed and bright
Melted into the sapphire night,
And the wan mists did all arise.
The wind awoke, and with mighty tone
Ran on the hill and into the dark,
Calling well to his playmates there,
Stirring the draping rags and hair,
And saying with deep voice, Begone.
1913.