I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a hire was in my head,
And caught and pinned the hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread.
And when white moths were on the wing,
and both white stars were flickering out,
I dropped a berry in a stream,
and caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor,
I went to blow the fire of flame,
but something rustled on the floor,
and someone called me by my name.
It had become a glimmering girl
with apple blossom in her hair,
and ran and faded through the
through hollow lands and dilly lights
I will find out where she has gone,
and kiss her lips, and take her hands,
and walk among long -dappled grass,
and plot till time and times are done,
the silver apples of the moon.
The golden apples of the sun.
