Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

The Others

FROM our hidden places,

By a secret path,

We come in the moonlight

To the side of the green rath.

There the night through

We take our pleasure,

Dancing to such a measure

As earth never knew.

To dance and lilt

And song without a name,

So sweetly chanted

’Twould put a bird to shame.

And many a maiden

Is there, of mortal birth,

Her young eyes laden

With dreams of earth.

Music so piercing wild

And forest-sweet would bring

Silence on blackbirds singing

Their best in the ear of spring.

And many a youth entrancèd

Moves slow in the dreamy round,

His brave lost feet enchanted

With the rhythm of faery sound.

Oh, many a thrush and blackbird

Would fall to the dewy ground,

And pine away in silence

For envy of such a sound.

So the night through,

In our sad pleasure,

We dance to many a measure

That earth never knew.