MY BABES IN THE WOOD.
I know a story, fairer, dimmer, sadder,
Than any story painted in your books.
You are so glad? It will not make you gladder;
Yet listen, with your pretty restless looks,
Than any story painted in your books.
You are so glad? It will not make you gladder;
Yet listen, with your pretty restless looks,
"Is it a Fairy Story?" Well, half fairy—
At least it dates far back as fairies do,
And seems to me as beautiful and airy;
Yet half, perhaps the fairy half, is true.
At least it dates far back as fairies do,
And seems to me as beautiful and airy;
Yet half, perhaps the fairy half, is true.
You had a baby sister and a brother,
(Two very dainty people, rosily white,
Each sweeter than all things except the other!)
Older yet younger—gone from human sight!
(Two very dainty people, rosily white,
Each sweeter than all things except the other!)
Older yet younger—gone from human sight!
And I, who loved them, and shall love them ever,
And think with yearning tears how each light hand
Crept toward bright bloom or berries—I shall never
Know how I lost them. Do you understand?
And think with yearning tears how each light hand
Crept toward bright bloom or berries—I shall never
Know how I lost them. Do you understand?
