Chapter 1
A young huntsman walked through a wood,
a forest old and green.
Armed with a bow and quiver good,
his stride was quite serene.
But in the distance he heard sound
of singing sweet and clear.
As he drew up to where it bound,
he wondered what would appear.
Aye, he wondered what would appear.
“I am the breeze through the trees,
I am voice on the wind.
I am the play of sun rays,
I am the moonbeam’s kin.
All of my days whiled away
only in this small wood,
but I need not any else,
I am as that I should.”
The young huntsman stood in struck awe
outside a laurel grove.
Within a toadstool ring he saw
a maiden singing her ode.
Her hair was red as fire’s flame,
her limbs lithe as his bow.
With thudding heart, he then exclaimed,
“With me you now must go!”
Aye, “With me you now must go!”
“I am the breeze through the trees,
I am voice on the wind.
I am the play of sun rays,
I am the moonbeam’s kin.
All of my days whiled away
only in this small wood,
but I need not any else,
I am as that I should.”
And so each day that huntsman returned
to her lush fairy land.
To her he said, “For you my heart burns.
Grant me your marriage hand!”
Her eyes were green as new-sprung leaves,
her voice as rich as wine.
The only answer he received
was, “No, I must decline.”
Aye, “No, I must decline.”
“I am the breeze through the trees,
I am voice on the wind.
I am the play of sun rays,
I am the moonbeam’s kin.
All of my days whiled away
only in this small wood,
but I need not any else,
I am as that I should.”
That young huntsman stalked though the wood
armed with a sharpened ax.
Under her laurel tree he stood
and gave it mighty whacks.
“Fear not, dear heart, I’ll set you free,
and you shall be my wife!”
She begged of him to leave her be;
his love brought naught but strife.
Aye, his love brought naught but strife.
“I am the breeze through the trees,
I am voice on the wind.
I am the play of sun rays,
I am the moonbeam’s kin.
All of my days whiled away
only in this small wood,
but I need not any else,
I am as that I should.”
He led her from her forest home;
she collapsed upon the earth.
Never before had she dared roam
from the green land of her birth.
“What ails you, love?” was his demand,
but he was left to grieve.
He could not take out from the land
what was never meant to leave.
Aye, what was never meant to leave.
Gone is the breeze through the trees,
lost is the voice on the wind.
Gone is the play of sun rays,
farewell, the moonbeam’s kin.
All of her days whiled away
only in that small wood.
Ended now are her bright days.
No more is that what should.
