Sale

Three Times, Three Times, Three, the Magic Number,
Bowing to the young moon, I sold myself away.
There in the clearing where the trees ringed round me,
There in the shadow of the white-stemmed beeches.
There where the bull-frogs chaunt in the marshland,
Bowing to the young moon, I sold myself away.

Three times, three times, three, I spake my wishes,
(That I might be fair if young Love should come my way),
Faint o'er the singing of a stone-strewn runlet;
Faint o'er the mourning of an old lone ruru,
Faint o'er the frogs' song, I called my little wishes,
That I might be fair if young Love should come my way.

Three times, three times, thrice, I had my wishing . . .
But I gave in payment my soul, Ah-well-a-day . . .
There was once for a dimple from the moon-dyed runlet,
Again for some sunshine to gild my elfin locks,
And last for the grace of a fair young rimu . . .
But Love has passed me sighing—For I gave my soul away.

C.E.D.