The Elf King, chaunting rhythmic, unknown words, An age-old incantation, ordered Elfland To drift away from Earth, the mortal realm. As in a moment no one can determine When sunset layers turn from gold to pink, From glowing pink to listless unlit colors, All Elfland left the edges of the fields Which all men know, and hied where men know not. Motionless fronds of dream-gripped trees lay calm. Petals of myriad roses stilled their trembling. Sharing the King's content, Elfland reposed.
Thus continues my series of semi-found poetry inspired by attention-arresting phrases from The King of Elfland's Daughter. "The Retreat of Elfland" is less of a found poem than "Almost Elfland," for I've taken a bit more liberty in rearranging the phrases, and even inserted a few words. Still, though, any beauty you find in this should be considered Lord Dunsany's doing, not mine.