In Ercildoune
IN light of sunrise and sunsetting,The long days lingered, in forgettingThat ever passion, keen to holdWhat may not tarry, was of oldBeyond the doubtful stream whose floodRuns red waist-high with slain men’s blood.
Was beauty once a thing that died?Was pleasure never satisfied?Was rest still broken by the vainDesire of action, bringing pain,To die in vapid rest again?All this was quite forgotten, thereNo winter brought us cold and care,Nor spring gave promise unfulfilled,Nor, with the heavy summer killed,The languid days droop autumnwards.So magical a season guardsThe constant prime of a green June.So slumbrous is the river’s tune,That knows no thunder of rushing rains,Nor ever in the summer wanes,Like waters of the summer-timeIn lands far from the fairy clime.
Alas! no words can bring the bloomOf Fairyland, the lost perfume.The sweet low light, the magic air,To minds of who have not been there:Alas! no words, nor any spellCan lull the heart that knows too wellThe towers that by the river stand,The lost fair world of Fairyland.
Ah, would that I had never beenThe lover of the Fairy Queen.Or would that I again might beAsleep below the Eildon Tree,And see her ride the forest wayAs on that morning of the May!
Or would that through the little town,The grey old place of Ercildoune,And all along the sleepy streetThe soft fall of the white deer’s feetCame, with the mystical command,That I must back to Fairy Land!