Poems

The Troll’s Nosegay by Robert Graves
A simple nosegay! was that much to ask?
(Winter still irked, with scarce a bud yet showing).
He loved her ill, if he resigned the task.
“Somewhere,” she cried, “there must be blossom blowing.”
It seems my lady wept and the troll swore
By Heaven he hated tears: he’d cure her spleen –
Where she had begged one flower he’d shower fourscore,
A bunch fit to amaze a China Queen.
Cold fog-drawn Lily, pale mist-magic Rose
He conjured, and in a glassy cauldron set
With elvish unsubstantial Mignonette
And such vague bloom as wandering dreams enclose.
But she?
Awed,
Charmed to tears,
Distracted,
Yet –
Even yet, perhaps, a trifle piqued – who knows?

The Witch-Bride by William Allingham
A fair witch crept to a young man’s side,
And he kiss’d her and took her for his bride.
But a Shape came in at the dead of night,
And fill’d the room with snowy light.
And he saw how in his arms there lay
A thing more frightful than mouth may say.
And he rose in haste, and follow’d the Shape
Till morning crown’d an eastern cape.
And he girded himself, and follow’d still,
When sunset sainted the western hill.
But, mocking and thwarting, clung to his side,
Weary day! – the foul Witch-Bride.

The Fairies by William Allingham
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.
High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He’s nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole