Chapter 1
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DOWN-ADOWN-DERRY
DOWN-ADOWN-DERRY A Book of Fairy Poems by
WALTER DE LA MARE
with Illustrations by
DOROTHY P. LATHROP
NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
CONTENTS
PAGE
FAIRIES
The Fairies Dancing 3 Dream-Song 4 A-Tishoo 7 The Double 8 The Unfinished Dream 11 The Horn 14 The Three Beggars 17 The Stranger 20 The Ruin 23 The Fairy in Winter 24 Sleepyhead 27 Sam's Three Wishes: or Life's Little Whirligig 29 Peak and Puke 39 The Changeling 41 Lob Lie by the Fire 45 Bluebells 48 The Honey Robbers 51 Berries 55 Happy, Happy It Is to Be 58 The Midden's Song 63 All But Blind 64 The Mocking Fairy 69 Down-Adown-Derry 70
WITCHES AND WITCHCRAFT
The Hare 76 I Saw Three Witches 79 The Isle of Lone 81 Sunk Lyonesse 86 Sleeping Beauty 89 Bewitched 91 The Enchanted Hill 93 The Ride-By-Nights 97 Off the Ground 99 Sadly, O, Sadly 105 The Dwarf 109 Longlegs 112 The Mermaids 116 The Little Creature 119 Sam 121 The Witch 125 The Journey 129 As Lucy Went A-Walking 134
THE WORLD OF DREAM
Beware! 140 Some One 143 Music 147 Haunted 149 They Told Me 151 The Sunken Garden 153 Snow 155 The World of Dream 159 Queen Djenira 162 Nightfall 165 Cumberland 167 The Little Green Orchard 171 The Truants 173 The Little Salamander 177 Voices 178 Sorcery 181 Melmillo 187 The Quiet Enemy 188 Mistletoe 191 Not I 195
FAIRIES
THE FAIRIES DANCING
I heard along the early hills, Ere yet the lark was risen up, Ere yet the dawn with firelight fills The night-dew of the bramble-cup,-- I heard the fairies in a ring Sing as they tripped a lilting round Soft as the moon on wavering wing. The starlight shook as if with sound, As if with echoing, and the stars Prankt their bright eyes with trembling gleams While red with war the gusty Mars Rained upon earth his ruddy beams. He shone alone, low down the West, While I, behind a hawthorn-bush, Watched on the fairies flaxen-tressed The fires of the morning flush. Till, as a mist, their beauty died, Their singing shrill and fainter grew; And daylight tremulous and wide Flooded the moorland through and through; Till Urdon's copper weathercock Was reared in golden flame afar, And dim from moonlit dreams awoke The towers and groves of Arroar.
DREAM-SONG
Sunlight, moonlight, Twilight, starlight-- Gloaming at the close of day, And an owl calling, Cool dews falling In a wood of oak and may.
Lantern-light, taper-light, Torchlight, no-light: Darkness at the shut of day, And lions roaring, Their wrath pouring In wild waste places far away.
Elf-light, bat-light, Touchwood-light and toad-light, And the sea a shimmering gloom of grey, And a small face smiling In a dream's beguiling In a world of wonders far away.
A-TISHOO
"Sneeze, Pretty, sneeze, Dainty, Else the Elves will have you sure, Sneeze, Light-of-Seven-Bright-Candles, See they're tippeting at the door; Their wee feet in measure falling, All their little voices calling, Calling, calling, calling, calling-- Sneeze, or never come no more!" "A-tishoo!"
THE DOUBLE
I curtseyed to the dovecote. I curtseyed to the well. I twirled me round and round about, The morning sweets to smell. When out I came from spinning so, Lo, betwixt green and blue Was the ghost of me--a Fairy Child-- A-dancing--dancing, too.
Nought was of her wearing That is the earth's array. Her thistledown feet beat airy fleet Yet set no blade astray. The gossamer shining dews of June Showed grey against the green; Yet never so much as a bird-claw print Of footfall to be seen.
Fading in the mounting sun That image soon did pine. Fainter than moonlight thinned the locks That shone as clear as mine. Vanished! Vanished! O, sad it is To spin and spin--in vain; And never to see the ghost of me A-dancing there again.
THE UNFINISHED DREAM
Rare-sweet the air in that unimagined country-- My spirit had wandered far From its weary body close-enwrapt in slumber Where its home and earth-friends are; A milk-like air--and of light all abundance; And there a river clear Painting the scene like a picture on its bosom, Green foliage drifting near.
No sign of life I saw, as I pressed onward, Fish, nor beast, nor bird, Till I came to a hill clothed in flowers to its summit, Then shrill small voices I heard.
And I saw from concealment a company of elf-folk With faces strangely fair, Talking their unearthly scattered talk together, A bind of green-grasses in their hair,
Marvellously gentle, feater far than children, In gesture, mien and speech, Hastening onward in translucent shafts of sunshine, And gossiping each with each.
Straw-light their locks, on neck and shoulder falling, Faint of almond the silks they wore, Spun not of worm, but as if inwoven of moonbeams And foam on rock-bound shore;
Like lank-legged grasshoppers in June-tide meadows, Amalillios of the day, Hungrily gazed upon by me--a stranger, In unknown regions astray.
Yet, happy beyond words, I marked their sunlit faces, Stealing soft enchantment from their eyes, Tears in my own confusing their small image, Harkening their bird-like cries.
They passed me, unseeing, a waft of flocking linnets; Sadly I fared on my way; And came in my dream to a dreamlike habitation, Close-shut, festooned and grey.
Pausing, I gazed at the porch dust-still, vine-wreathèd, Worn the stone steps thereto, Mute hung its bell, whence a stony head looked downward, Grey 'gainst the sky's pale-blue--
Strange to me: strange....
THE HORN
Hark! is that a horn I hear, In cloudland winding sweet-- And bell-like clash of bridle-rein, And silver-shod light feet?
Is it the elfin laughter Of fairies riding faint and high, Beneath the branches of the moon, Straying through the starry sky?
Is it in the globèd dew Such sweet melodies may fall? Wood and valley--all are still, Hushed the shepherd's call.
THE THREE BEGGARS
'Twas autumn daybreak gold and wild, While past St. Ann's grey tower they shuffled, Three beggars spied a fairy-child In crimson mantle muffled.
The daybreak lighted up her face All pink, and sharp, and emerald-eyed; She looked on them a little space, And shrill as hautboy cried:--
"O three tall footsore men of rags Which walking this gold morn I see, What will ye give me from your bags For fairy kisses three?"
The first, that was a reddish man, Out of his bundle takes a crust: "La, by the tombstones of St. Ann, There's fee, if fee ye must!"
The second, that was a chestnut man, Out of his bundle draws a bone: "Lo, by the belfry of St. Ann, And all my breakfast gone!"
The third, that was a yellow man, Out of his bundle picks a groat, "La, by the Angel of St. Ann, And I must go without."
That changeling, lean and icy-lipped, Touched crust, and bone, and groat, and lo! Beneath her finger taper-tipped The magic all ran through.
Instead of crust a peacock pie, Instead of bone sweet venison, Instead of groat a white lily With seven blooms thereon.
And each fair cup was deep with wine: Such was the changeling's charity, The sweet feast was enough for nine, But not too much for three.
O toothsome meat in jelly froze! O tender haunch of elfin stag! O rich the odour that arose! O plump with scraps each bag!
There, in the daybreak gold and wild, Each merry-hearted beggar man Drank deep unto the fairy child, And blessed the good St. Ann.
THE STRANGER
In the nook of a wood where a pool freshed with dew Glassed, daybreak till evening, blue sky glimpsing through Then a star; or a slip of May-moon silver-white, Thridding softly aloof the quiet of night, Was a thicket of flowers.
Willow herb, mint, pale speedwell and rattle Water hemlock and sundew--to the wind's tittle-tattle They nodded, dreamed, swayed in jocund delight, In beauty and sweetness arrayed, still and bright. By turn scampered rabbit; trotted fox; bee and bird Paused droning, sang shrill, and the fair water stirred. Plashed green frog, or some brisk little flickering fish-- Gudgeon, stickleback, minnow--set the ripples a-swish.
A lone pool, a pool grass-fringed, crystal-clear: Deep, placid, and cool in the sweet of the year; Edge-parched when the sun to the Dog Days drew near; And with winter's bleak rime hard as glass, robed in snow, The whole wild-wood sleeping, and nothing a-blow But the wind from the North--bringing snow.
That is all. Save that one long, sweet, June night-tide straying, The harsh hemlock's pale umbelliferous bloom Tenting nook, dense with fragrance and secret with gloom, In a beaming of moon-colored light faintly raying, On buds orbed with dew phosphorescently playing, Came a Stranger--still-footed, feat-fingered, clear face Unhumanly lovely: ... and supped in that place.
THE RUIN
When the last colours of the day Have from their burning ebbed away, About that ruin, cold and lone, The cricket shrills from stone to stone; And scattering o'er its darkened green, Bands of the fairies may be seen, Chattering like grasshoppers, their feet Dancing a thistledown dance round it: While the great gold of the mild moon Tinges their tiny acorn shoon.
THE FAIRY IN WINTER
There was a Fairy--flake of winter-- Who, when the snow came, whispering, Silence, Sister crystal to crystal sighing, Making of meadow argent palace, Night a star-sown solitude, Cried 'neath her frozen eaves, "I burn here!"
Wings diaphanous, beating bee-like, Wand within fingers, locks enspangled, Icicle foot, lip sharp as scarlet, She lifted her eyes in her pitch-black hollow-- Green as stalks of weeds in water-- Breathed: stirred.
Rilled from her heart the ichor, coursing, Flamed and awoke her slumbering magic. Softlier than moth's her pinions trembled; Out into blackness, light-like, she flittered, Leaving her hollow cold, forsaken.
In air, o'er crystal, rang twangling night-wind. Bare, rimed pine-woods murmured lament.
SLEEPYHEAD
As I lay awake in the white moonlight I heard a faint singing in the wood, "Out of bed, Sleepyhead, Put your white foot, now; Here are we Beneath the tree Singing round the root now."
I looked out of window, in the white moonlight, The leaves were like snow in the wood-- "Come away, Child, and play Light with the gnomies; In a mound, Green and round, That's where their home is.
"Honey sweet, Curds to eat, Cream and frumenty, Shells and beads, Poppy seeds, You shall have plenty."
But, as soon as I stooped in the dim moonlight To put on my stocking and my shoe, The sweet shrill singing echoed faintly away, And the grey of the morning peeped through, And instead of the gnomies there came a red robin To sing of the buttercups and dew.
SAM'S THREE WISHES; or LIFE'S LITTLE WHIRLIGIG
"I'm thinking and thinking," said old Sam Shore, "'Twere somebody _knocking_ I heard at the door."
From the clock popped the cuckoo and cuckooed out eight, As there in his chair he wondering sate ... "There's no one I knows on would come so late, A-clicking the latch of an empty house With nobbut inside 'un but me and a mouse.... Maybe a-waking in sleep I be, And 'twere out of a dream came that tapping to me." At length he cautiously rose, and went, And with thumb upon latch awhile listening bent, Then slowly drew open the door. And behold! There stood a Fairy!--all green and gold, Mantled up warm against dark and cold, And smiling up into his candle shine, Lips like wax, and cheeks like wine, As saucy and winsome a thing to see As are linden buds on a linden tree.
Stock-still in the doorway stood simple Sam, A-ducking his head, with "Good-e'en to 'ee, Ma'am."
Dame Fairy she nods, and cries clear and sweet, "'Tis a _very_ good-e'en, sir, when such folks meet. I know thee, Sam, thou though wist not of me, And I'm come in late gloaming to speak with thee; Though my eyes do dazzle at glint of your rush, All under this pretty green fuchsia bush."
Sam ducked once more, smiling simple and slow. Like the warbling of birds her words did flow, And she laughed, very merry, to see how true Shone the old man's kindness his courtesy through. And she nodded her head, and the stars on high Sparkled down on her smallness from out of the sky.
"A friend is a friend, Sam, and wonderful pleasant, And I'm come for old sake's sake to bring thee a present. Three wishes, three wishes are thine, Sam Shore, Just three wishes--and wish no more, All for because, ruby-ripe to see, The pixy-pears burn in yon hawthorn tree, And your old milch cow, wheresoever she goes Never crops over the fairy-knowes. Ay, Sam, thou art old and thy house is lone, But there's Potencies round thee, and here is one!"
Poor Sam, he stared: and the star o'erhead A shimmering light on the elm-tops shed. Like rilling of water her voice rang sweet, And the night-wind sighed at the sound of it. He frowned--glanced back at the empty grate, And shook very slowly his grey old pate: "Three wishes, my dear! Why, I scarcely knows Which be my crany and which my toes! But I thank 'ee, Ma'am, kindly, and this I'd say, That the night of your passing is Michaelmas Day; And if it were company come on a sudden, Why, I'd ax for a fat goose to fry in the oven!"
And lo, and forsooth! as the words he was uttering, A rich puff of air set his candle a-guttering, And there rose in the kitchen a sizzling and sputtering, With a crackling of sparks and of flames a great fluttering, And--of which here could not be two opinions-- A smoking-hot savour of sage and onions. Beam, wall and flagstones the kitchen was lit, Every dark corner and cranny of it With the blaze from the hearthstone. Copper and brass Winked back the winking of platter and glass. And a wonderful squeaking of mice went up At the smell of a Michaelmas supper to sup-- Unctuous odours that wreathed and swirled Where'er frisked a whisker or mouse-tail twirled, While out of the chimney up into the night That ne'er-to-be-snuffed-too-much smoke took flight. "That's one," says the Fairy, finger on thumb, "So now, Mister Sam, there's but two to come!" She leaned her head sidelong; she lifted her chin, With a twinkling of eye from the radiance within. Poor Sam stood astounded; he says, says he, "I _wish_ my old Mother was back with me, For if there was one thing she couldn't refuse 'Twas a sweet thick slice from the breast of a goose." But his cheek grew stiff and his eyes stared bright, For there, on her stick, pushing out of the night, Tap-tapping along, herself and no other, Came who but the shape of his dear old Mother! Straight into the kitchen she hastened and went, Her breath coming quick as if all but spent. "Why, Sam," says she, "the bird be turning, For my nose tells I that the skin's a-burning!" And down at the oven the ghost of her sat And basted the goose with the boiling fat.
"Oho," cries the Fairy, sweet and small, "Another wish gone will leave nothing at all." And Sam sighs, "Bless 'ee, Ma'am, keep the other, There's nowt that I want now I have my Mother." But the Fairy laughs softly, and says, says she, "There's one wish left, Sam, I promised 'ee three. Hasten your wits, the hour creeps on, There's calling afield and I'm soon to be gone. Soon as haps midnight the cocks will crow And me to the gathering and feasting must go."
Sam gazed at his Mother--withered and wan, The rose in her cheek, her bright hair, gone, And her poor old back bent double with years-- And he scarce could speak for the salt, salt tears. "Well, well," he says, "I'm unspeakable glad: But--it bain't quite the same as when I was a lad. There's joy and there's joy, Ma'am, but to tell 'ee the truth There's none can compare with the joy of one's youth. And if it was possible, how could I choose But be back in boy's breeches to eat the goose; And all the old things--and my Mother the most, To shine again real as my own gatepost. What wouldn't I give, too, to see again wag The dumpity tail of my old dog, Shag! Your kindness, Ma'am, but all wishing was vain Unless us can both be young again." A shrill, faint laughter from nowhere came ... Empty the dark in the candle-flame....
And there stood our Sam, about four foot high, Snub nose, shock hair, and round blue eye. Breeches and braces and coat of him too, Shirt on his back, and each clodhopping shoe Had shrunk to a nicety--button and hem To fit the small Sammie tucked up into them.
There was his Mother, too; smooth, dear cheek, Lips as smooth as a blackbird's beak, Pretty arched eyebrows, the daintiest nose-- While the smoke of the baking deliciously rose.
"Come, Sammie," she cries, "your old Mammikin's joy, Climb up on your stool, supper's ready, my boy. Bring in the candle, and shut out the night; There's goose, baked taties and cabbage to bite. Why, bless the wee lamb, he's all shiver and shake, And you'd think from the look of him scarcely awake! If 'ee glour wi' those eyes, Sam, so dark and round, The elves will away with 'ee, I'll be bound!" So Sam and his Mother by wishes three Were made just as happy as happy can be. And there--with a bumpity tail to wag-- Sat laughing, with tongue out, their old dog, Shag. To clatter of patter, bones, giblets and juice, Between them they ate up the whole of the goose.
But time is a river for ever in flow, The weeks went by as the weeks must go. Soon fifty-two to a year did grow. The long years passed, one after another, Making older and older our Sam and his Mother; And, alas and alack, with nine of them gone, Poor Shag lay asleep again under a stone. And a sorrowful dread would sometimes creep Into Sam's dreams, as he lay asleep, That his Mother was lost, and away he'd fare, Calling her, calling her, everywhere, In dark, in rain, by roads unknown, Under echoing hills, and alone, alone. What bliss in the morning to wake and see The sun shining green in the linden tree, And out of that dream's dark shadowiness To slip in on his Mother and give her a kiss, And go whistling off in the dew to hear The thrushes all mocking him, sweet and clear.
Still, moon after moon from heaven above Shone on Mother and son, and made light of love. Her roses faded, her pretty brown hair Had sorrowful grey in it everywhere. And at last she died, and was laid to rest, Her tired hands crossed on her shrunken breast. And Sam, now lonely, lived on and on Till most of his workaday life seemed gone.
Yet spring came again with its green and blue, And presently summer's wild roses too, Pinks, Sweet William, and sops-in-wine, Blackberry, lavender, eglantine. And when these had blossomed and gone their way, 'Twas apples, and daisies and Michaelmas Day-- Yes, spider-webs, dew, and haws in the may, And seraphs singing in Michaelmas Day.
Sam worked all morning and _couldn't_ get rest For a kind of a feeling of grief in his breast. And yet, not grief, but something more Like the thought that what happens has happened before. He fed the chickens, he fed the sow, On a three-legged stool sate down to the cow, With a pail 'twixt his legs in the green in the meadow, Under the elm trees' lengthening shadow; And woke at last with a smile and a sigh To find he had milked his poor Jingo dry.