. . .Upon a foxglove bell hung papillon; And all around the grass was long and fine. Within this sylvan space, ah, ages since! The white-robed Druids in the cold moonlight Had reared an altar stone of wondrous height; The fane was there, the Druids were away. All fragrant was the air, and sunny still,— On the Eve of Saint John ‘tis ever so! Above, the sky was blue without a cloud; The sun stood sentinel o’er the haunted wood. And there she lay, the woman of a dream, 34Against the Druid Stone, amid the bloom; Her eyes were on the stream; she leaned her ear; From far away the trouvère played to her; In flakes of gold the sunlight blessed her hair; Her lips were red; she seemed a princess old; Mid purple bloom she lay and gazed afar, In the magic wood on a magic day, Listening to hear the mighty trouvère play. Was she a princess or. . . Read More