And you and I have met but thrice!—
Three times enough to make me love!—
I praised your hair once; then your glove;
Your eyes; your gown—you were like ice.
And yet this might suffice, my love,
And yet this might suffice.
I know now what it is I’ll do:
I’ll search and find the ferns that grow,
The fern-seed that the fairies know,
And sprinkle fern-seed in my shoe,
And haunt the steps of you, my dear,
And haunt the steps of you.
You ’ll see the poppy-pods dip here,
The blow-ball of the thistle slip,
And no wind breathing—but my lip
Next to your anxious cheek and ear,
To tell you I am near, my love,
To tell you I am near.
On wood-ways I will tread your gown—
You ’ll know it is no brier!—then
I’ll whisper words of love again,
And smile to see your quick face frown;
And then I ’ll kiss it down, my dear,
And then I ’ll kiss it down.
You ’ll sit at home and read or knit,
When suddenly the page is blotted—
My hands!—or all your needles knotted:
And in your rage you ’ll cry a bit:
But I—I ’ll laugh at it, my love,
But I—I ’ll laugh at it.
The secrets which you say at prayer
I too will hear; or, when you sing,
I too will sing, and whispering
Bend down and kiss your eyes and hair,
And you will know me there, my dear,
And you will know me there.
Would it were true what people say!—
Would I could find that faëry seed!
Then would I win your love, indeed,
By being near you night and day:—
There is no other way, my love,
There is no other way.