On a Midsummer Eve
I idly cut a parsley stalk,
by Thomas Hardy
And blew therein towards the moon;
I had not thought what ghosts would walk
With shivering footsteps to my tune.
I went, and knelt, and scooped my hand
As if to drink, into the brook,
And a faint figure seemed to stand
Above me, with the bygone look.
I lipped rough rhymes of chance, not choice,
I thought not what my words might be;
There came into my ear a voice
That turned a tenderer verse for me.