The light of the stars pales the water
The willow lets down its leaves to drink
Morgan le Fay is not at home
Nor her ravens the daughters
But Sunday’s child of grace is,
Close to the willow-wren.
May I build you a house in the long leaves
Though the light’s blown out by the wind?
Over the sleep-cast waters
Still and slowly flowing
May I bring you under the bridges
And by the locks where toil
The waters in loud repose
Where deep the trees in towers of leaves
The vine has cast on them, look in
To that still place in the stream?
I heard a young man say
To this gentlest one.
And then? she asked. And then?
Dark are the waters there,
Those waters draw the dream,
From there all currents run
As into the heartsblood
And may I bring you there
Past fields of sleep and grasses
Drowned at the water’s brim?
And then? she asked, and then?
You looked at me and I am changed
And I shall love you long
If you love me. And if not,
What then? she cried, what then?
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