THE SPELL-STRUCK

She walks as she were moving

Some mystic dance to tread,

So falls her gliding footstep,

So leans her list'ning head;

For once to fairy harping

She danced upon the hill,

And through her brain and bosom

The music pulses still.

Her eyes are bright and tearless,

But wide with yearning pain:

She longs for nothing earthly,

But oh, to hear again

The sound that held her breathless

Upon her moonlit path —

The golden fairy music

That filled the lonely rath!

Her lips have felt strange kisses

And drunk the wine of death,

Nor earthly love nor laughter

Shall stir their tender breath.

She's dead to all things living

Since that November Eve,

And when They call her earthward,

No living thing will grieve.