The Pixy Gleaner

From candle-douting to candle-teening 
I labour at the weary gleaning: 
The scattered ears I gather up, 
Eat of your bread, drink of your cup; 
And yet no ray of light can guide you 
To guess a Pixy works beside you — 
You of your wisdom overweening. 

I only of my wayward clan
Accept the food and wage of man: 
I labour in your fields all day,
Whence my own folk have fled away. 
No voices call me to the moor 
When at the noon the heat grows sore — 
I bear my burden as I can. 

My fairy birthright I have lost; 
And yet I never grudge the cost, 
Because of one who gleans beside me, 
Whose cloud of russet hair shall hide me 
From Sorrow, who goes seeking ever 
For hearts to break and lives to sever. 
The running brooks for her I crossed: 

Thresholds of human homes I passed, 
My lot among you mortals cast, 
Because a gleaner's eyes were kind, 
A gleaner's voice rang down the wind 
Like a bird's music, lost in leaves. 
I'll bind a whole green shire of sheaves 
If she will love me at the last.