Far in the forest night entwined,
I hear the wailing mourners go:
I see the pale procession wind
Among the tree-trunks, dim and slow.
Why have I risen from my bed
To watch them threading out and in?
The fireflies flicker overhead
In webs the watching spiders spin.
Each pointed shoe with gems is set;
All ashen white each ghostly gown.
Each wears a jewelled carcanet,
To match her elderberry crown.
Why weep they in these woods of green
And fill the running dark with fear?
They chant their melancholy threne
Above the trappings of a bier!
"No more he'll hunt the bee." they sing,
"No more he'll hear the fairy horn,
No more the flower-bells will ring
For him along the edge of morn.
"For him no more brown gypsies brush
The fallen leaves of gold and red;
No magic beasts move in the lush,
Green grass, for he that played - is dead!"
Whom mourn they as they onward glide,
With death-flowers blowing to the knee?
I watch them like a rising tide
Among the trunks of ebony.
The moon has left her murky cloud,
The phantom mourners pass me by.
Ah, woe! Beneath the lifted shroud
I see the child that once was I!
First published in The Bulletin, 27 January 1921
