But I--with me it was ever
evening, when the blackbird bursts harshly away. Then it was so still
in the orchard, and in the curved bough so solitary, that the
nightingale, cowering, would almost for fear begin to sing, and stoop
to the bending of the bough, her sidelong eyes in shade; while the
stars began to stand in the stations above us, ever bright, and all
the night was peace. Then would I dream on--dream of the face I loved,
Innocence, O Innocence!"
It was a strange outburst. His voice rose almost to a chant, full of a
forlorn music. But even as he ceased, we heard in the following
silence, above the plashing of the restless fountains, beyond, far and
faint, a wild and stranger music welling. And I saw from the porch
that looks out from the house called Gloom, "La belle Dame sans Merci"
pass riding with her train, who rides in beauty beneath the huntress,
heedless of disguise. Across from far away, like leaves of autumn,
skirred the dappled deer. The music grew, timbrel and pipe and tabor,
as beneath the glances of the moon the little company sped, transient
as a rainbow, elusive as a dream.
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