She lived beside the edge of a sweep of heather <br />In a lone cot by the rill, <br />Where the wold and the fertile farmland came together, <br />And the winds ne'er are still: <br />Her hair was like ripening corn with the sunlight in it; <br />Her feet were swift as the deer; <br />And her voice was glad and sweet as the song of a linnet, <br />And her laugh was crystal-clear. <br /> <br />But once on a day the air was filled with wailing, <br />And grief long and sore, <br />For she came not home when the evening light was failing, <br />And they ne'er saw her more; <br />Forth in the early morn she had hastened fleetly <br />Over the leaping rill, <br />At the sound of a fairy's laughter ringing sweetly, <br />And a call from the hill. <br /> <br />Gone, she was gone thro' the close-barr'd gates of Faerie, <br />That magic eve in June; <br />But still, when the winds are loose and the moor is eerie, <br />In the light of a fitful moon, <br />On the edge of the moor she wanders calling, calling, <br />She more than mortals fair, <br />And she dries the tears that will keep falling, falling, <br />With her long, streaming hair; <br />And mothers shudder and clasp their children nearer, <br />When the wind's sounding shrill, <br />Lest they hear the voice of the lost one ringing clearer, <br />And the call from the hill.<br /><br />Cicely Fox Smith<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-fairies-child/
