THE leaves were blowing red and brown Beneath the beech
trees bare, When the Dark Maid came to our town With gold pins in her hair.
Her eyes were like a forest pool, Her lips they were so sweet, Every man put aside his tool, To watch her down the street.
The leaves were blowing yellow and grey,
In the waning of the moon, When the Dark Maid came along the way With silver-buckled shoon.
Her mantle fell like folds of mist, That rift and shift and change: Was never wandering lutanist That played a tune so strange. The wind was like a sigh That sobs across a ferny wold Before the rain-drops fly.
And none beheld her, whence she came, Or knew the way she went, Our hearts being stirred to smouldering flame Of tenderest discontent.
The leaves were blowing ash and dun Athwart the edge of night, When the Dark Maid toward the setting sun Sang herself out of sight.
And every man, from marvel roused, Took up his toil again ; How should that fairy joy be housed In homes of mortal men ?
But still against a singing wind In dreams we follow her The Dark Maid never looks behind, That plays the dulcimer. MAY BYRON.
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