Mary/ Your looks are all the candles that I need.

Shawn.  Once a fly dancing in a beam of the sun,
Or the light wind blowing out of the dawn,
Could fill your heart with dreams none other knew,
But now the indissoluble sacrament
Has mixed your heart that was most proud and cold
With my warm heart for ever; the sun and moon
Must fade and heaven be rolled up like a scroll
But your white spirit still walk by my spirit.

(A Voice singing in the wood.)

Maurteen.  There’s some one singing.  Why, it’s but a child. 
It sang, “The lonely of heart is withered away.” 
A strange song for a child, but she sings sweetly. 
Listen, Listen!

(Goes to door.)

Mary.  O, cling close to me,
Because I have said wicked things to-night.

The voice.  The wind blows out of the gates of the day,
The wind blows over the lonely of heart,
And the lonely of heart is withered away. 
While the faeries dance in a place apart,
Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring,
Tossing their milk-white arms in the air
For they hear the wind laugh and murmur and sing
Of a land where even the old are fair,
And even the wise are merry of tongue
But I heard a reed of Coolaney say,
When the wind has laughed and murmured and sung
The lonely of heart is withered away

Maurteen.  Being happy, I would have all others happy,
So I will bring her in out of the cold.

(He brings in the faery child.)

The child.  I tire of winds and waters and pale lights.

Maurteen.  And that’s no wonder, for when night has fallen
The wood’s a cold and a bewildering place,
But you are welcome here.

The child.  I am welcome here. 
For when I tire of this warm little house
There is one here that must away, away.

Maurteen.  O, listen to her dreamy and strange talk. 
Are you not cold? 
The child.  I will crouch down beside you,
For I have run a long, long way this night.

Bridget.  You have a comely shape.

Maurteen.  Your hair is wet.

Bridget.  I’ll warm your chilly feet.

Maurteen.  You have come indeed
A long, long way—­for I have never seen
Your pretty face—­and must be tired and hungry,
Here is some bread and wine.

The child.  The wine is bitter. 
Old mother, have you no sweet food for me?

Bridget.  I have some honey.

(She goes into the next room.)

Maurteen.  You have coaxing ways,
The mother was quite cross before you came.

(Bridget returns with the honey and fills
Porringer with milk.)

Bridget.  She is the child of gentle people; look
At her white hands and at her pretty dress. 
I’ve brought you some new milk, but wait a while
And I will put it to the fire to warm,
For things well fitted for poor folk like us
Would never please a high-born child like you.