The Changeling

 

Where moor dust and night shimmer collect,

on cloven grass below,

heaven and earth, and eldritch things,

begets a child.

But a wraith, a wisp, fairy-sprite,

cries the changeling.

Her dreams are unicorns, her sighs, crystal wings,

and her longings all wrapped up in the moon.

Do fox and sheep wait by her cradle,

quaking aspen, oak and elder tree?

Do not starry Orion and twinkling Ceres

lie at her whiten folds?

Come morning, the sow will roan

the cock chime and heifer low, earth telling of earthly things.

Yet fay-reeds will fan, the toadstools like folded lyres, sing,

the choir of crickets, damselfly and bog-rose

raise once more, its lonely antiphon.

Only things of heaven do things earthly dream,

of trollish feet, elven lips and angel wings,

doth cries the little changeling.