Irene's Dream
Whilst the twin syllables whose world-old fame
(Unheeded by the singer) laughs to scorn
The myriad-fancied poet of to-day,
Still with new pleasure charmed the expectant ear,
And quiet homesteads, with their garden gates
O'erarched by lilac and larburnum sprays
Or veiled behind a vaporous rosy cloud
Of apple-blossoms, to the passer-by
Hinted all Eden in a moment's glance.
So, wandering and still seeking for his dog,
Across a daisied flat his search at last
Guided him to a quiet little stile
The entrance to a solitary copse
Margined with blue by dewy hyacinths
And walled in with white bowers of hawthorn bloom.
And, as he paused a moment, gazing in,
Two little maidens passing by, their hands
Filled with gold blossoms from the cowslip mead,
Cried, "Sir, you must not go there—no one ever
Goes near that place."
"Why not, my little maids?
What place is this?"
"'Tis called the Fairies' Folly.
There is a house, but no one goes to it,
Nor to the pleasure-grounds, nor yet this wood."
"But who lives there?"
(Unheeded by the singer) laughs to scorn
The myriad-fancied poet of to-day,
Still with new pleasure charmed the expectant ear,
And quiet homesteads, with their garden gates
O'erarched by lilac and larburnum sprays
Or veiled behind a vaporous rosy cloud
Of apple-blossoms, to the passer-by
Hinted all Eden in a moment's glance.
So, wandering and still seeking for his dog,
Across a daisied flat his search at last
Guided him to a quiet little stile
The entrance to a solitary copse
Margined with blue by dewy hyacinths
And walled in with white bowers of hawthorn bloom.
And, as he paused a moment, gazing in,
Two little maidens passing by, their hands
Filled with gold blossoms from the cowslip mead,
Cried, "Sir, you must not go there—no one ever
Goes near that place."
"Why not, my little maids?
What place is this?"
"'Tis called the Fairies' Folly.
There is a house, but no one goes to it,
Nor to the pleasure-grounds, nor yet this wood."
"But who lives there?"
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