Far away, and long ago–
May sweet Memory be forgiven!
Came a Wizard in the evening,
And he sang the Song of Seven.
Yes, he plucked his jangling harp-strings
With fingers smooth and even;
And his eyes beneath his dangling hair
Were still as is the sea;
But the Song of Seven has never yet,
One note, come back to me.
The Song of One I know,
A rose its thorns between;
The Song of Two I learned
Where only the birds have been;
The Song of Three I heard
When March was fleet with hares;
The Song of Four was the wind’s–the wind’s,
Where wheat grew thick with tares;
The Song of Five, ah me!
Lovely the midmost one;
The Song of Six, died out
Before the dream was done. . .
One–two–three–four–five, six–
And all the grace notes given:
But widdershins, and witchery-sweet,
Where is the Song of Seven?
The Dreaming Path 