He played his lute at drowsy noon
In the shadows of the towers;
Some cried he brought the lilt of birds
And wind among the flowers;
And every gaffer swore that he
Had strung the lute with witchery!
The children heard no note of grief
They danced upon the cobbled way
And laughed the strings were woven by
Bright fairies making holiday --
But old folk, heeding close and long,
Thought there was weeping in the song.
One vowed the strings a woman's hair
Of unforgotten gold;
One whispered of a wer-wolf's thews
Torn from the churchyard mould:
But one pale maid, who stood apart,
Knew them drawn from her breaking heart.
First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 21 July 1925
