The Man Who Trod on Sleeping Grass
In a field by Cahirconlish
I stood on sleeping grass,
No cry I made to Heaven
From my dumb lips would pass.
Three days, three nights I slumbered,
And till I woke again
Those I have loved have sought me,
And sorrowed all in vain.
My neighbours still upbraid me,
And murmur as I pass,
“There goes a man enchanted.
He trod on fairy grass.’
My little ones around me,
They claim my old caress,
I push them roughly from me
With hands that cannot bless.
My wife upon my shoulder
A bitter tear lets fall,
I turn away in anger
And love her not at all.
For like a man surrounded,
In some sun-haunted lane,
By countless wings that follow,
A grey and stinging chain,
Around my head for ever
I hear small voices speak
In tongues I cannot follow,
I know not what they seek.
I raise my hands to find them
When autumn winds go by,
And see between my fingers
A broken summer fly.
I raise my hands to hold them
When winter days are near,
And clasp a falling snowflake
That breaks into a tear.
And ever follows laughter
That echoes through my heart,
From some delights forgotten
Where once I had a part.
What love comes, half-remembered,
In half-forgotten bliss?
Who lay upon my bosom,
And had no human kiss?
Where is the land I loved in?
What music did I sing
That left my ears enchanted
Inside the fairy ring?
I see my neighbours shudder,
And whisper as I pass:
“Three nights the fairies stole him;
He trod on sleeping grass.’
