The Shadow People

Old lame Bridget doesn't hear Fairy music in the grass When the gloaming's on the mere And the shadow people pass: Never hears their slow grey feet Coming from the village street Just beyond the parson's wall, Where the clover globes are sweet And the mushroom's parasol Opens in the moonlit rain. Every night I hear them call From their long and merry train. Old lame Bridget says to me, "It is just your fancy, child," She cannot believe I see Laughing faces in the wild, Hands that twinkle in the sedge Bowing at the water's edge Where the finny minnows quiver, Shaping on a blue wave's ledge Bubble foam to sail the river. And the sunny hands to me Beckon ever, beckon ever. Oh! I would be wild and free And with the shadow people be.