Old lame Bridget doesn't hear <br />Fairy music in the grass <br />When the gloaming's on the mere <br />And the shadow people pass: <br />Never hears their slow grey feet <br />Coming from the village street <br />Just beyond the parson's wall, <br />Where the clover globes are sweet <br />And the mushroom's parasol <br />Opens in the moonlit rain. <br />Every night I hear them call <br />From their long and merry train. <br />Old lame Bridget says to me, <br />"It is just your fancy, child." <br />She cannot believe I see <br />Laughing faces in the wild, <br />Hands that twinkle in the sedge <br />Bowing at the water's edge <br />Where the finny minnows quiver, <br />Shaping on a blue wave's ledge <br />Bubble foam to sail the river. <br />And the sunny hands to me <br />Beckon ever, beckon ever. <br />Oh! I would be wild and free, <br />And with the shadow people be.<br /><br />Francis Ledwidge<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-shadow-people/
