'Wish! and it's thine!' the changeling piped,
Shrill from her thorn.
And I with dew-soaked shoes could only
Stare in return.
High up above me sang the lark,
Beneath me lay the sea,
Gorse, bramble, rock, and winchat were
My only company.
Her tiny voice fell faint, and lo,
Where she had been,
Leaned but a few-days-budded rose
Out of the green.