The Sidhe-Maid

I saw her upon an expanse of green,
Her long white hair escaping the hold
Of the clasp that glittered with such a sheen,
It seemed made of the purest, brightest gold.
I saw her upon an expanse of green,
And I longed to take her, have her to hold.

She turned her mare, a delicate thing,
Gray as the dress of mist-like cloth she wore,
Gray as the dust brushed from a moth's wing,
Gray as the rocks on a desolate sea-shore.
She turned her mare, a delicate thing,
And jewels laughed at me from the dress she wore.

Her face was pale, as pale as the starlight
That sang in her voice when she called out to me.
Her voice had the sound of songs soft and bright
Sung by mothers to children drowsing in Faerie.
Her face was pale, as pale as the starlight,
And as far, as faint, as unlikely to come down to me.

She rode there, a fair maid of the fair Sidhe,
The People of Peace as they are called in our songs.
She rode there, and she was a vision of beauty
For which my heart reached, for which it still longs.
She rode there, a fair maid of the fair Sidhe,
And inspired in me the passion born of old songs.

She was gone before I could speak her, or thank
Her for the gift that she had unwittingly given me.
I went and looked, but no hoofprints shone on the bank
Of the stream, damp with dew as it runs to the sea.
She was gone before I could speak her, or thank
Her for the love for which they would speak of me.