Mariella Hunt

She’ll pass through the wood
In her midnight-blue gown.
Always she visits
The sleepy old town.
Many have seen her
But none know her name.
She does not speak to them;
It’s all the same.
Folk say her weeping
Brings trees from the ground,
Tears like a river—
O! mournful, the sound.
A lad claimed she joined him
On a moonlit walk…
But he can’t describe her,
So how can he talk?
One thing is for certain,
She reigns in the night,
Pale as a moonbeam,
To some a great fright.
Good mothers tell children
Not to stay out late.
One doesn’t know
When the Lady doth wait.