Дора Сигерсон Шортер (Dora Sigerson Shorter)

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."