In the Small Hours

I LAY in my bed and fiddledWith a dreamland viol and bow,And the tunes flew back to my fingersI had melodied years ago.It was two or three in the morningWhen I fancy-fiddled soLong reels and country-dances,And hornpipes swift and slow.

And soon anon came crossingThe chamber in the grayFigures of jigging fieldfolk—Saviours of corn and hay—To the air of "Haste to the Wedding,"As after a wedding-day;Yea, up and down the middleIn windless whirls went they!

There danced the bride and bridegroom,And couples in a train,Gay partners time and travailHad longwhiles stilled amain! . . .

It seemed a thing for weepingTo find, at slumber's waneAnd morning's sly increeping,That Now, not Then, held reign.