Chapter 4

The last light fails--that shallow pool of day! The coursers of the dark stamp down to drink, Arch their wild necks, lift their wild heads and neigh; Their drivers, gathering at the water-brink, With eyes ashine from out their clustering hair, Utter their hollow speech, or gaze afar, Rapt in irradiant reverie, to where Languishes, lost in light, the evening star.

Come the wood-nymphs to dance within the glooms, Calling these charioteers with timbrels' din; Ashen with twilight the dark forest looms O'er the nocturnal beasts that prowl within "O glory of beauty which the world makes fair!" Pant they their serenading on the air.

Sound the loud hooves, and all abroad the sky The lusty charioteers their stations take; Planet to planet do the sweet Loves fly, And in the zenith silver music wake. Cities of men, in blindness hidden low, Fume their faint flames to that arched firmament, But all the dwellers in the lonely know The unearthly are abroad, and weary and spent, With rush extinguished, to their dreaming go. And world and night and star-enclustered space The glory of beauty are in one enravished face.

CUMBERLAND

The old, old King of Cumberland Awoke with bristling beard-- Crouched listening in the darkness To a sound that he had heard.

He leaned upon his foursquare bed, His thumb beneath his chin; Hearkening after that which had stirred The dream that he was in.

The old, old King of Cumberland Muttered, "Twas not the sea, Gushing upon Shlievlisskin rocks, That wakened me.

"Thunder from midmost night it was not; For yonder at the bars Burn to their summer setting her Clear constellated stars."

The old, old King of Cumberland Mused yet, "Rats ever did Rove from their holes, and clink my spurs, And gnaw my coverlid.

"Oft hath a little passing breeze Along this valance stirred; But in this stagnant calm 'twas not The wind I heard.

"Some keener, stranger, quieter, closer Voice it was me woke...." And silence, like a billow, drowned The word he spoke.

His chamber walls were cloaked with dark; Shadow did thickly brood, And in the vague, all-listening night A presence stood....

Sudden a gigantic hand he thrust Into his bosom cold, Where now no surging restless beat Its long tale told:

Swept on him then, as there he sate, Terror icy chill; 'Twas silence that had him awoke-- His heart stood still.

THE LITTLE GREEN ORCHARD

Some one is always sitting there, In the little green orchard; Even when the sun is high In noon's unclouded sky, And faintly droning goes The bee from rose to rose, Some one in shadow is sitting there, In the little green orchard.

Yes, and when twilight is falling softly In the little green orchard; When the grey dew distils And every flower-cup fills; When the last blackbird says, "What--what!" and goes her way--s-sh! I have heard voices calling softly In the little green orchard.

Not that I am afraid of being there, In the little green orchard; Why, when the moon's been bright, Shedding her lonesome light, And moths like ghosties come, And the horned snail leaves home: I've sat there, whispering and listening there, In the little green orchard.

Only it's strange to be feeling there, In the little green orchard; Whether you paint or draw, Dig, hammer, chop, or saw; When you are most alone, All but the silence gone ... Some one is waiting and watching there, In the little green orchard.

THE TRUANTS

Ere my heart beats too coldly and faintly To remember sad things, yet be gay, I would sing a brief song of the world's little children Magic hath stolen away.

The primroses scattered by April, The stars of the wide Milky Way, Cannot outnumber the hosts of the children Magic hath stolen away.

The buttercup green of the meadows, The snow of the blossoming may, Lovelier are not than the legions of children Magic hath stolen away.

The waves tossing surf in the moonbeam, The albatross lone on the spray, Alone know the tears wept in vain for the children Magic hath stolen away.

In vain: for at hush of the evening When the stars twinkle into the grey, Seems to echo the far-away calling of children Magic hath stolen away.

THE LITTLE SALAMANDER

TO MARGOT

When I go free, I think 'twill be A night of stars and snow, And the wild fires of frost shall light My footsteps as I go; Nobody--nobody will be there With groping touch, or sight, To see me in my bush of hair Dance burning through the night.

VOICES

Who is it calling by the darkened river Where the moss lies smooth and deep, And the dark trees lean unmoving arms, Silent and vague in sleep, And the bright-heeled constellations pass In splendour through the gloom; Who is it calling o'er the darkened river In music, "Come!"?

Who is it wandering in the summer meadows Where the children stoop and play In the green faint-scented flowers, spinning The guileless hours away? Who touches their bright hair? who puts A wind-shell to each cheek, Whispering betwixt its breathing silences, "Seek! seek!"?

Who is it watching in the gathering twilight When the curfew bird hath flown On eager wings, from song to silence, To its darkened nest alone? Who takes for brightening eyes the stars, For locks the still moonbeam, Sighs through the dews of evening peacefully Falling, "Dream!"

SORCERY

"What voice is that I hear Crying across the pool?" "It is the voice of Pan you hear, Crying his sorceries shrill and clear, In the twilight dim and cool."

"What song is it he sings, Echoing from afar; While the sweet swallow bends her wings, Filling the air with twitterings, Beneath the brightening star?"

The woodman answered me, His faggot on his back:-- "Seek not the face of Pan to see; Flee from his clear note summoning thee To darkness deep and black!

"He dwells in thickest shade, Piping his notes forlorn Of sorrow never to be allayed; Turn from his coverts sad Of twilight unto morn!"

The woodman passed away Along the forest path; His ax shone keen and grey In the last beams of day: And all was still as death:--

Only Pan singing sweet Out of Earth's fragrant shade; I dreamed his eyes to meet, And found but shadow laid Before my tired feet.

Comes no more dawn to me, Nor bird of open skies. Only his woods' deep gloom I see Till, at the end of all, shall rise, Afar and tranquilly, Death's stretching sea.

MELMILLO

Three and thirty birds there stood In an elder in a wood; Called Melmillo--flew off three, Leaving thirty in a tree; Called Melmillo--nine now gone, And the boughs held twenty-one; Called Melmillo--eighteen Left but three to nod and preen; Called Melmillo--three--two--one-- Now of birds were feathers none.

Then stole slim Melmillo in To that wood all dusk and green, And with lean long palms outspread Softly a strange dance did tread; Not a note of music she Had for echoing company; All the birds were flown to rest In the hollow of her breast; In the wood thorn, elder, willow-- Danced alone--lone danced Melmillo.

THE QUIET ENEMY

Hearken! now the hermit bee Drones a quiet threnody; Greening on the stagnant pool The criss-cross light is beautiful; In the venomed yew tree wings Preen and flit. The linnet sings.

Gradually the brave sun Sinks to a day's journey done; In the marshy flats abide Mists to muffle midnight-tide. Puffed within the belfry tower Hungry owls drowse out their hour....

Walk in beauty. Vaunt thy rose. Flaunt thy poisonous loveliness! Pace for pace with thee there goes A shape that hath not come to bless. I, thine enemy?... Nay, nay! I can only watch, and wait Patient treacherous time away, Hold ajar the wicket gate.

MISTLETOE

Sitting under the mistletoe (Pale-green, fairy mistletoe), One last candle burning low, All the sleepy dancers gone, Just one candle burning on, Shadows lurking everywhere: Some one came, and kissed me there.

Tired I was; my head would go Nodding under the mistletoe (Pale-green, fairy mistletoe), No footsteps came, no voice, but only, Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely, Stooped in the still and shadowy air Lips unseen--and kissed me there.

NOT I

As I came out of Wiseman's Street, The air was thick with driving sleet; Crossing over Proudman's Square, Cold clouds and louring dulled the air; But as I turned to Goodman's Lane, The burning sun came out again; And on the roof of Children's Row In solemn glory shone the snow. There did I lodge; there hope to die: Envying no man--no, not I.