Fool I was--oh, fool was I
(Who should know the ways of them!)
That I touched his cloak's green hem,
Passing by.

I was fey with spring and mirth--
Speaking him without a thought--
Now is joy a thing forgot
On the earth.

Ere the sweet thorn-buds were through,
Wife and child doom-stricken lay,
Cold as winter, white as spray--
"One and two!"

Now I seek eternally
That grim Counter of the fen,
Praying he may count again--
Counting, "Three".

* In the bad chance of a meeting with the "Little People" the
mortal is cautioned not to speak to them nor to touch, but to pass
by quickly with averted eye.--Old tale.




The Enchantress