THE world of dream is shattered; hill and tree
And wingéd music and enchanted lawn;
For someone signed the cross, and suddenly
Our faëryland was gone:
The dark fell swiftly on the fear-struck land
And mocking echoes cried across the chill;
The wailing woodfolk fled us . . . but your hand
Held close to my hand still.
Oh, what are woodland dream and fluting reed,
Red glamor of enchanted jewel-stone?
I pass the ruined faëry-gates indeed . . .
But not alone.
