A MYTH OF FANTASY AND FIRST LOVE by EDWARD ROWLAND SILL

HID in the silence of a forest deep
Dwelt a fair soul in flesh that was as fair.
Over her nimble hands her floating hair
Made waving shadows, while her eyes did keep
The winding track of weaving intricate.
Early at morn and at the evening late,
A robe of shimmering silk she wove with care.
Hour after hour, though might she smile or weep,
Still ran the golden or the glooming thread.
Waking she wove that which she dreamed asleep,
Till many a noon had bloomed above her tender head.

Now when the time was full, the robe was done.
Light she would hold it in her loving hand,
And with wide eyes of wonder she would stand
For half the day, and turn it to the sun,
To see its gold lights shift and melt away
And grow again, and flash in myriad play.
Or white it glimmered in each glossy strand,
For half the night she held it to the moon;
Or, sitting with it sleeked across her knee,
She would bend down above it, and would croon
The strangest bits of broken songs that e'er could be.

Then came the dawn when (so her doom had said)
Out through the shadowy forest she must go,
And follow whatsoever chance might show,
Or whither any sound her footsteps led;
Taking for wayward guides whatever stirred --
The rustling squirrel, or the startled bird,
Their pathless ways pursuing, fast or slow,
Until the forest's border she should tread.
There whosoever met her, she must fling
That woven wonder blindly on his head,
And see in him her only lord and king.

Dim was the morn, and dew-wet was the way:
Aloft the ancient cedars lifted high
Their jagged crosses on the dawn-streaked sky:
Below, the gossamers were glimmering gray
Along her path, and many a silver thread
Caught glancing lights, in floating curves o'erhead;
And little dew-showers pattered far and nigh,
Where wakened thrushes stirred the sprinkled spray.
For hours she wandered where her footsteps led,
Till a long lance of open sunlight lay
As red as gold upon her lifted, eager head.

Ah, woe for her that mortal doom must be!
Just then the prince came spurring, fair and young,
With heart as merry as the song he sung:
But as she started forward, at her knee
A cringing beggar from the weeds close by
Holds up his cap for alms, with whining cry.
Swift over him the lifted robe was flung:
Henceforth, his slave, forever she must see
All princely beauty in that brutal face --
Heaven send that by some deeper witchery
His swinish soul through her may gain some touch of grace.

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

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