'T WAS a little man in green, And he sat upon a stone; And he sat there all alone, Whispering. "One and two," so whispered he. ('Twas an ancient man and hoar) "One and two," and then no more— Never, "Three". Hawthorn trees were quick with May— "Sir," said I, "Good-day to you"! But he counted. "One and two" In strange way. Fool I was—oh, fool was I (Who should know the ways of them!) That I touched his cloak's green hem, Passing by. I was fey with spring and mirth— Speaking him without a thought— Now is joy a thing forgot On the earth. Ere the sweet thorn-buds were through, Wife and child doom-stricken lay, Cold as winter, white as spray— @3"One and two!"@1 Now I seek eternally That grim Counter of the fen, Praying he may count again— Counting, "Three". |