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WHEN I was
young, we dwelt in a vale
By a misty fen that rang
all night,
And thus it was the maidens pale
I knew
so well, whose garments trail
Across the reeds to a
window light.
The fen had every kind of bloom,
And
for every kind there was a face,
And a voice that has
sounded in my room
Across the sill from the outer
gloom.
Each came singly unto her place,
But all
came every night with the mist;
And often they
brought so much to say
Of things of moment to which,
they wist,
One so lonely was fain to list,
That
the stars were almost faded away
Before the last
went, heavy with dew,
Back to the place from which
she came--
Where the bird was before it flew,
Where the flower was before it grew,
Where bird and
flower were one and the same.
And thus it is I know
so well
Why the flower has odor, the bird has song.
You have only to ask me, and I can tell.
No, not
vainly there did I dwell,
Nor vainly listen all the
night long.
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