Encounter at Dusk
I walked across the dusk-blue fields in spellbound English air, I found her curled beneath the Moon in the fragrant hollow there.
Though small, she lay in sweet repose, I knew she did not fear The silent owl, that bright pale Death, The fox who circled near.
She knew nothing of the eyes that watched From darkness close at hand. The field-mice gambolled in her hair And her hair became the land.
That ringing call: Perhaps, Perhaps! That echoed through the glade, It was her soul; she heard it not, But I felt my spirit swayed.
As bell-like in the darkling fields It sang of long ago, My own lips did stir to speak: Perhaps, perhaps!- but no.
Instead, I left her lying there And turned towards the dawn. As I, the traveller, passed away, The dream-girl slumbered on.
Isabella Harvey
29