Martha

Once. . . once upon a time. . .
 Over and over again,
 Martha would tell us stories,
 In the hazel glen.
 Hers were those clear grey eyes
 You watch, and the story seems
Told by their beautifulness
 Tranquil as dreams.

She would sit with her two slim hands 
Clasped round her bended knees;
While we on our elbows lolled,
 And stared at ease.
Her voice and her narrow chin,
 Her grave small lovely head,
Seemed half the meaning
 Of the words she said.

Once . . . once upon a time. . . ,
 Like a dream you dream in the night,
 Fairies and gnomes stole out
 In the leaf-green light.
And her beauty far away
 Would fade, as her voice ran on,
Till hazel and summer sun
 And all were gone:
All fordone and forgot;
 And like clouds in the height of the sky,
Our hearts stood still in the hush
 Of an age gone by.

 Walter de la Mare