It is the Elf King’s daughter,
with the leaf-light in her eyes,
that greenish twilight beneath the beech boughs
where only the hum of flies
disturbs the lilies of the valley
and ferns their fronds unfurl.
How dare I stir or show my presence
to the Elf King’s girl?
She sits so still upon the boulder,
the leaf-light in her hair
casting a greenish pall on its goldness.
Mortal, stare
at her small feet shod in leaf-green velvet,
her small hands pale and fay,
among the wood anemones
in early May.