The Woman Of The Well, Page 2 Of 3 Poem by John Bliven Morin

And all about, the whispered folk
Of every childhood tale:
The trooping faeries, gayly dress’d,
Press’t in to bid me hail;
Their welcoming cries echoed back
From every wooded vale.

And here and there among them,
The lost children smiled;
I recognised Beth O’Ryan there,
My neighbor’s long-lost child;
Ten year’s gone, yet here she was,
Still young; I was beguiled.

“How can it be? ” I asked my guide,
“Near twenty should be Beth,
And Seamus there, a man should be, ”
I asked with fearful breath.
The Woman of the Well just smiled,
“Aye, here there is no death.”

“The children that we take to live
Here with us in this place,
Some in exchange for changelings
To enrich the mortal race,
None grow old; no graying hair
Nor wrinkle on a face.”

“But, Lady, I have followed you
To this land unwillingly;
As lovely as it seems for those
Who dwell here happily,
I would return to earthly life,
Joys, sorrows and mortality.”

“I’ve offered thee a precious gift
Few mortals dare refuse;
This land of constant happiness.
If mortality thou choose,
This gift of life eternal here,
Thou shalt surely lose.”

I must have swooned, or else
Her faerie-magick spell
Brought me to deep darkness
And naught; I thought I fell
But woke at last to dawn’s first light
Beside the ancient well.