And turn'd its place into the cabbage garth.
It may not murmur to you any more
Of fairies dancing under the cold blue moon
But whisper you of hearth-warm sanctities,
And fireside duty, and the cares of home,
Gilding our pewter as the log flames high.
Sylvie:
Fell'd the old pear tree, silver in the moon?
That shower'd each springtime down its scented snow
Which melted not on brow or bosom, nay,
You should have ask'd me 'ere you fell'd the tree
That was my childhood's glory, and the grace
Of that poor cottage; O, I thought to take
Your dead wife's place, because I lov'd her child,
But now I see you'll never understand
One mood of mine, and I should sit and hear
A voice that cry'd at midnight by the door,
A footfall lingering, loth to leave the place
