She bewitched me
With such a sweet and genial charm,
I knew not when I wounded was,
And when I found it hugged the harm.
Down hill; ah yes—down hill, down hill I glide,
But such a hill!
One tapestried fall of meadow pride,
Of lady smock and daffodil.
How soon, how soon adown a rocky stair,
And slips no longer smooth as they are sweet,
Shall I, with backward-streaming hair,
Outfly my bleeding feet?