DOI Artikel:
Chesson, Nora: Wolf-Edith
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.26392#0061
Wolf-Edith
By Nora Hopper
Wolf-Edith dwells on the wild grey down
Where the gorse burns gold and the bent grows
brown.
She goes as light as a withered leaf,
She has not tasted of joy or grief.
With wild things’ beauty her face is fair,
A bramble-flower in a web of hair,
Fine as thistle-down tossed abroad
When the soul of the thistle goes home to God.
Her lips know songs that will lure away
A dull-eared clown from his buxom may.
But never a man she hath hearkened sing
And followed home from her wandering—
And never a man the bents above
Might call Wolf-Edith his mate and love.
Oh
By Nora Hopper
Wolf-Edith dwells on the wild grey down
Where the gorse burns gold and the bent grows
brown.
She goes as light as a withered leaf,
She has not tasted of joy or grief.
With wild things’ beauty her face is fair,
A bramble-flower in a web of hair,
Fine as thistle-down tossed abroad
When the soul of the thistle goes home to God.
Her lips know songs that will lure away
A dull-eared clown from his buxom may.
But never a man she hath hearkened sing
And followed home from her wandering—
And never a man the bents above
Might call Wolf-Edith his mate and love.
Oh