Fair is the gentle field that lies
Between the wood both great and old,
And the thin shaw whose saplings hold
All shy and secret harmonies;
There by that field they hear themselves
Sigh spells into the air, above
The place that hath an hill of elves
Standing in the midst thereof.
Round is the hill, and deep in flowers,
And soundeth, with a pleasant tone,
And many a burthen of his own,
The enchanted Tune of Seven Towers:
Upon his gracious head the eve
Quickens the coloured light, and still
When other hills are dark, doth leave
A glimmer to the elfeshill.
The dun cow
Standeth half seen;
The lily calf
Moveth on the magic green:
Which mayest thou love most,
Their eyes or their calm breath?
The wraith of all that thou hast lost
Here doth hasten to his death.
Yea, thus the ghost is fled,
Like imagin’d ivory
Over the hill’s head;
Farewell his memory;
Faintly the leaves chill
Waft spells into the air, above
The field that hath an elfeshill
Standing in the midst thereof.
1918.