This was the rhyme that was graven there, And the children chanted it quietly; As the warm wind came and played with their hair, And rustled the golden grasses against the stone, And laughed and was gone To waken the wild white flowers of the sea, And sing a song of the days that were, A song of memory, gay and blind As the sun on the graves that it left behind; For this, ah this, was the song of the wind.

I

She sat on the tarred old jetty, with a sailor's careless ease, And the clear waves danced around her feet and kissed her tawny knees; Her head was bare, and her thick black hair was coiled behind a throat Chiselled as hard and bright and bold as the bow of a sailing boat.

II

Her eyes were blue, and her jersey was blue as the lapping, slapping seas, And the rose in her cheek was painted red by the brisk Atlantic breeze; And she sat and waited her father's craft, while Dan Trevennick's eyes Were sheepishly watching her sunlit smiles and her soft contented sighs.

III

For he thought he would give up his good black pipe and his evening glasses of beer, And blunder to chapel on Sundays again for a holy Christian year, To hold that foot in his hard rough hand and kiss the least of its toes: Then he swore at himself for a great damned fool; which he probably was, God knows.

IV

Often in summer twilights, too, he would sit on a coil of rope, As the stars came out in their twinkling crowds to play with wonder and hope, While he watched the side of her clear-cut face as she sat on the jetty and fished, And even to help her coil her line was more than he hoped or wished.

V

But once or twice o'er the dark green tide he saw with a solemn delight, Hooked and splashing after her line, a flash and a streak of white; As hand over hand she hauled it up, a great black conger eel, For Dan Trevennick to kill as it squirmed with its head beneath his heel.

VI

And at last, with a crash and a sunset cry from the low soft evening star, A shadowy schooner suddenly loomed o'er the dark green oily bar; With fairy-like spars and misty masts in the golden dusk of gloaming, Where the last white seamew's wide-spread wings were wistfully westward roaming;

VII

Then the song of the foreign seamen rose in the magical evening air, Faint and far away, as it seemed, but they knew it was, ah, so near; Far away as her heart from Dan's as he sheepishly drew to her side, And near as her heart when he kissed the lips of his newly promised bride.

VIII

And when they were riding away in the train on the night of their honeymoon, What a whisper tingled against her cheek as it blushed like a rose in June; For she said, "I am tired and ready for bed," and Dan said, "So am I;" And she murmured, "Are you tired, too, poor Dan?" and he answered her, "No, dear, why?"

IX

It was never a problem-play, at least, and the end of it all is this; They were drowned in the bliss of their ignorance and buried the rest in a kiss; And they loved one another their whole life long, as lovers will often do; For it never was only the fairy-tales that rang so royally true.

X

The rose in her cheek was painted red by the brisk Atlantic breeze; Her eyes were blue, and her jersey was blue as the lapping, slapping seas; Her head was bare, and her thick black hair was coiled behind a throat Chiselled as hard and bright and bold as the bow of a sailing boat.

XI

Eighteen hundred and forty-three, Dan Trevennick was lost at sea; And, buried here at her husband's side Lies the body of Joan, his bride, Who, a little while after she lost him, died.



A SONG OF TWO BURDENS

The round brown sails were reefed and struggling home Over the glitter and gloom of the angry deep: Dark in the cottage she sang, "Soon, soon, he will come, Dreamikin, Drowsy-head, sleep, my little one, sleep."

Over the glitter and gloom of the angry deep Was it only a dream or a shadow that vanished away? "Lullaby, little one, sleep, my little one, sleep." She sang in a dream as the shadows covered the day.

Was it only a sail or a shadow that vanished away? The boats come home: there is one that will never return; But she sang in a dream as the shadows buried the day; And she set the supper and begged the fire to burn.

The boats come home; but one will never return; And a strangled cry went up from the struggling sea. She sank on her knees and begged the fire to burn, "Burn, oh burn, for my love is coming to me!"

A strangled cry went up from the struggling sea, A cry where the ghastly surf to the moon-dawn rolled; "Burn, oh burn; for my love is coming to me, His hands will be scarred with the ropes and starved with the cold."

A strangled cry where the foam in the moonlight rolled, A bitter cry from the heart of the ghastly sea; "His hands will be frozen, the night is dark and cold, Burn, oh burn, for my love is coming to me."

One cry to God from the soul of the shuddering sea, One moment of stifling lips and struggling hands; "Burn, oh burn; for my love is coming to me; And oh, I think the little one understands."

One moment of stifling lips and struggling hands, Then only the glitter and gloom of the angry deep; "And oh, I think the little one understands; Dreamikin, Drowsy-head, sleep, my little one, sleep."



EARTH-BOUND

Ghosts? Love would fain believe, Earth being so fair, the dead might wish to return! Is it so strange if, even in heaven, they yearn For the May-time and the dreams it used to give?

Through dark abysms of Space, From strange new spheres where Death has called them now May they not, with a crown on every brow, Still cry to the loved earth's lost familiar face?

We two, love, we should come Seeking a little refuge from the light Of the blinding terrible star-sown Infinite, Seeking some sheltering roof, some four-walled home,

From that too high, too wide Communion with the universe and God, How glad to creep back to some lane we trod Hemmed in with a hawthorn hedge on either side.

Fresh from death's boundless birth, How fond the circled vision of the sea Would seem to souls tired of Infinity, How kind the soft blue boundaries of earth,

How rich the nodding spray Of pale green leaves that made the sapphire deep A background to the dreams of that brief sleep We called our life when heaven was far away.

How strange would be the sight Of the little towns and twisted streets again, Where all the hurrying works and ways of men Would seem a children's game for our delight.

What boundless heaven could give This joy in the strait austere restraints of earth, Whereof the dead have felt the immortal dearth Who look upon God's face and cannot live?

Our ghosts would clutch at flowers As drowning men at straws, for fear the sea Should sweep them back to God's Eternity, Still clinging to the day that once was ours.

No more with fevered brain Plunging across the gulfs of Space and Time Would we revisit this our earthly clime We two, if we could ever come again;

Not as we came of old, But reverencing the flesh we now despise And gazing out with consecrated eyes, Each of us glad of the other's hand to hold.

So we should wander nigh Our mortal home, and see its little roof Keeping the deep eternal night aloof And yielding us a refuge from the sky.

We should steal in, once more, Under the cloudy lilac at the gate, Up the walled garden, then with hearts elate Forget the stars and close our cottage door.

Oh then, as children use To make themselves a little hiding-place, We would rejoice in narrowness of space, And God should give us nothing more to lose.

How good it all would seem To souls that from the aeonian ebb and flow Came down to hear once more the to and fro Swing o' the clock dictate its hourly theme.

How dear the strange recall From vast antiphonies of joy and pain Beyond the grave, to these old books again, That cosy lamp, those pictures on the wall.

Home! Home! The old desire! We would shut out the innumerable skies, Draw close the curtains, then with patient eyes Bend o'er the hearth; laugh at our memories, Or watch them crumbling in the crimson fire.



ART, THE HERALD

"The voice of one crying in the wilderness"

I

Beyond; beyond; and yet again beyond! What went ye out to seek, oh foolish-fond? Is not the heart of all things here and now? Is not the circle infinite, and the centre Everywhere, if ye would but hear and enter? Come; the porch bends and the great pillars bow.

II

Come; come and see the secret of the sun; The sorrow that holds the warring worlds in one; The pain that holds Eternity in an hour; One God in every seed self-sacrificed, One star-eyed, star-crowned universal Christ, Re-crucified in every wayside flower.



THE OPTIMIST

Teach me to live and to forgive The death that all must die Who pass in slumber through this heaven Of earth and sea and sky; Who live by grace of Time and Space At which their peace is priced; And cast their lots upon the robe That wraps the cosmic Christ;

Who cannot see the world-wide Tree Where Love lies bleeding still; This universal cross of God Our star-crowned Igdrasil.

Teach me to live; I do not ask For length of earthly days, Or that my heaven-appointed task Should fall in pleasant ways;

If in this hour of warmth and light The last great knell were knolled; If Death should close mine eyes to-night And all the tale be told;

While I have lips to speak or sing And power to draw this breath, Shall I not praise my Lord and King Above all else, for death?

When on a golden eve he drove His keenest sorrow deep Deep in my heart, and called it love; I did not wince or weep.

A wild Hosanna shook the world And wakened all the sky, As through a white and burning light Her passionate face went by.

When on a golden dawn he called My best beloved away, I did not shrink or stand appalled Before the hopeless day.

The joy of that triumphant dearth And anguish cannot die; The joy that casts aside this earth For immortality.

I would not change one word of doom Upon the dreadful scroll, That gave her body to the tomb And freed her fettered soul.

For now each idle breeze can bring The kiss I never seek; The nightingale has heard her sing, The rose caressed her cheek.

And every pang of every grief That ruled my soul an hour, Has given new splendours to the leaf, New glories to the flower;

And melting earth into the heaven Whose inmost heart is pain, Has drawn the veils apart and given Her soul to mine again.



A POST-IMPRESSION

I

He sat with his foolish mouth agape at the golden glare of the sea, And his wizened and wintry flaxen locks fluttered around his ears, And his foolish infinite eyes were full of the sky's own glitter and glee, As he dandled an old Dutch Doll on his knee and sang the song of the spheres.

II

Blue and red and yellow and green they are melting away in the white; Hey! but the wise old world was wrong and my idiot heart was right; Yes; and the merry-go-round of the stars rolls to my cracked old tune, Hey! diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon.

III

Then he cradled his doll on his crooning heart and cried as a sea-bird cries; And the hot sun reeled like a drunken god through the violent violet vault: And the hillside cottage that danced to the deep debauch of the perfumed skies Grew palsied and white in the purple heath as a pillar of Dead Sea salt.

IV

There were three gaunt sun-flowers nigh his chair: they were yellow as death and tall; And they threw their sharp blue shadowy stars on the blind white wizard wall; And they nodded their heads to the weird old hymn that daunted the light of the noon, Hey! diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon.

V

The little dog laughed and leered with the white of his eye as he sidled away To stare at the dwarfish hunchback waves that crawled to the foot of the hill, For his master's infinite mind was wide to the wealth of the night and the day; The walls were down: it was one with the Deep that only a God can fill.

VI

Then a tiny maiden of ten sweet summers arrived with a song and a smile, And she swung on the elfin garden-gate and sung to the sea for a while, And a phantom face went weeping by and a ghost began to croon Hey! diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon.

VII

And she followed a butterfly up to his chair; and the moon-calf caught at her hand And stared at her wide blue startled eyes and muttered, "My dear, I have been, In fact, I am there at this moment, I think, in a wonderful fairy-land:" And he bent and he whispered it low in her ear—"I know why the grass is green.

VIII

"I know why the daisy is white, my dear, I know why the seas are blue; I know that the world is a dream, my dear, and I know that the dream is true; I know why the rose and the toad-stool grow, as a curse and a crimson boon, Hey! diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon.

IX

"If I gaze at a rose, do you know, it grows till it overshadows the earth, Like a wonderful Tree of Knowledge, my dear, the Tree of our evil and good; But I dare not tell you the terrible vision that gave the toad-stool birth, The dream of a heart that breaks, my dear, and a Tree that is bitter with blood.

X

"Oh, Love may wander wide as the wind that blows from sea to sea, But a wooden dream, for me, my dear, and a painted memory; For the God that has bidden the toad-stool grow has writ in his cosmic rune, Hey! diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon."

XI

Then he stared at the child and he laughed aloud, and she suddenly screamed and fled, As he dreamed of enticing her out thro' the ferns to a quarry that gapped the hill, To hurtle her down and grin as her gold hair scattered around her head Far, far below, like a sunflower disk, so crimson-spattered and still.

XII

"Ah, hush!" he cried; and his dark old eyes were wet with a sacred love As he kissed the wooden face of his doll and winked at the skies above, "I know, I know why the toad-stools grow, and the rest of the world will, soon; Hey! diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon."

XIII

"Blue and red and yellow and green they are all mixed up in the white; Hey! but the wise old world was wrong and my idiot heart was right; Yes; and the merry-go-round of the stars rolls to my cracked old tune, Hey! diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon."



THE BARREL-ORGAN

There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street In the City as the sun sinks low; And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweet And fulfilled it with the sunset glow; And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light; And they've given it a glory and a part to play again In the Symphony that rules the day and night.

And now it's marching onward through the realms of old romance, And trolling out a fond familiar tune, And now it's roaring cannon down to fight the King of France, And now it's prattling softly to the moon, And all around the organ there's a sea without a shore Of human joys and wonders and regrets; To remember and to recompense the music evermore For what the cold machinery forgets....

Yes; as the music changes, Like a prismatic glass, It takes the light and ranges Through all the moods that pass; Dissects the common carnival Of passions and regrets, And gives the world a glimpse of all The colours it forgets.

And there La Traviata sighs Another sadder song; And there Il Trovatore cries A tale of deeper wrong; And bolder knights to battle go With sword and shield and lance, Than ever here on earth below Have whirled into—a dance!—

Go down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland; Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)

The cherry-trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume and sweet perfume, The cherry-trees are seas of bloom (and oh, so near to London!) And there they say, when dawn is high and all the world's a blaze of sky The cuckoo, though he's very shy, will sing a song for London.

The Dorian nightingale is rare and yet they say you'll hear him there At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!) The linnet and the throstle, too, and after dark the long halloo And golden-eyed tu-whit, tu-whoo of owls that ogle London.

For Noah hardly knew a bird of any kind that isn't heard At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!) And when the rose begins to pout and all the chestnut spires are out You'll hear the rest without a doubt, all chorussing for London:—

Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland; Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)

And then the troubadour begins to thrill the golden street, In the City as the sun sinks low; And in all the gaudy busses there are scores of weary feet Marking time, sweet time, with a dull mechanic beat, And a thousand hearts are plunging to a love they'll never meet, Through the meadows of the sunset, through the poppies and the wheat, In the land where the dead dreams go.

Verdi, Verdi, when you wrote Il Trovatore did you dream Of the City when the sun sinks low, Of the organ and the monkey and the many-coloured stream On the Piccadilly pavement, of the myriad eyes that seem To be litten for a moment with a wild Italian gleam As A che la morte parodies the world's eternal theme And pulses with the sunset-glow.

There's a thief, perhaps, that listens with a face of frozen stone In the City as the sun sinks low; There's a portly man of business with a balance of his own, There's a clerk and there's a butcher of a soft reposeful tone. And they're all of them returning to the heavens they have known: They are crammed and jammed in busses and—they're each of them alone In the land where the dead dreams go.

There's a very modish woman and her smile is very bland In the City as the sun sinks low; And her hansom jingles onward, but her little jewelled hand Is clenched a little tighter and she cannot understand What she wants or why she wanders to that undiscovered land, For the parties there are not at all the sort of thing she planned, In the land where the dead dreams go.

There's a rowing man that listens and his heart is crying out In the City as the sun sinks low; For the barge, the eight, the Isis, and the coach's whoop and shout, For the minute-gun, the counting and the long dishevelled rout, For the howl along the tow-path and a fate that's still in doubt, For a roughened oar to handle and a race to think about In the land where the dead dreams go.

There's a labourer that listens to the voices of the dead In the City as the sun sinks low; And his hand begins to tremble and his face to smoulder red As he sees a loafer watching him and—there he turns his head And stares into the sunset where his April love is fled, For he hears her softly singing and his lonely soul is led Through the land where the dead dreams go.

There's an old and haggard demi-rep, it's ringing in her ears, In the City as the sun sinks low; With the wild and empty sorrow of the love that blights and sears, Oh, and if she hurries onward, then be sure, be sure she hears, Hears and bears the bitter burden of the unforgotten years, And her laugh's a little harsher and her eyes are brimmed with tears For the land where the dead dreams go.

There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street In the City as the sun sinks low; Though the music's only Verdi there's a world to make it sweet Just as yonder yellow sunset where the earth and heaven meet Mellows all the sooty City! Hark, a hundred thousand feet Are marching on to glory through the poppies and the wheat In the land where the dead dreams go.

So it's Jeremiah, Jeremiah, What have you to say When you meet the garland girls Tripping on their way?

All around my gala hat I wear a wreath of roses (A long and lonely year it is I've waited for the May!) If any one should ask you, The reason why I wear it is— My own love, my true love Is coming home to-day.

And it's buy a bunch of violets for the lady (It's lilac-time in London; it's lilac-time in London!) Buy a bunch of violets for the lady While the sky burns blue above:

On the other side the street you'll find it shady (It's lilac-time in London; it's lilac-time in London!) But buy a bunch of violets for the lady, And tell her she's your own true love.

There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street In the City as the sun sinks glittering and slow; And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweet And enriched it with the harmonies that make a song complete In the deeper heavens of music where the night and morning meet, As it dies into the sunset-glow; And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light, And they've given it a glory and a part to play again In the Symphony that rules the day and night.

And there, as the music changes, The song runs round again. Once more it turns and ranges Through all its joy and pain, Dissects the common carnival Of passions and regrets; And the wheeling world remembers all The wheeling song forgets.

Once more La Traviata sighs Another sadder song: Once more Il Trovatore cries A tale of deeper wrong; Once more the knights to battle go With sword and shield and lance Till once, once more, the shattered foe Has whirled into—a dance!

Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland; Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)



THE LITANY OF WAR

Sandalphon, whose white wings to heaven upbear The weight of human prayer, Stood silent in the still eternal Light Of God, one dreadful night. His wings were clogged with blood and foul with mire, His body seared with fire. "Hast thou no word for Me?" the Master said. The angel sank his head:

"Word from the nations of the East and West," He moaned, "that blood is best. The patriot prayers of either half of earth, Hear Thou, and judge their worth. Out of the obscene seas of slaughter, hear, First, the first nation's prayer: 'O God, deliver Thy people. Let Thy sword Destroy our enemies, Lord!'

"Pure as the first, as passionate in trust That their own cause is just; Puppets as fond in those dark hands of greed; As fervent in their creed; As blindly moved, as utterly betrayed, As urgent for Thine aid; Out of the obscene seas of slaughter, hear The second nation's prayer: 'O God, deliver Thy people. Let Thy sword Destroy our enemies, Lord.'

"Over their slaughtered children, one great cry From either enemy! From either host, thigh-deep in filth and shame, One prayer, one and the same; Out of the obscene seas of slaughter, hear, From East and West, one prayer: 'O God, deliver Thy people. Let Thy sword Destroy our enemies, Lord.'"

Then, on the Cross of His creative pain, God bowed His head again. Then, East and West, over all seas and lands, Out-stretched His pierced hands. "And yet," Sandalphon whispered, "men deny The Eternal Calvary."



THE ORIGIN OF LIFE

[Written in answer to certain scientific pronouncements]

I

In the beginning?—Slowly grope we back Along the narrowing track, Back to the deserts of the world's pale prime, The mire, the clay, the slime; And then ... what then? Surely to something less; Back, back, to Nothingness!

II

You dare not halt upon that dwindling way! There is no gulf to stay Your footsteps to the last. Go back you must! Far, far below the dust, Descend, descend! Grade by dissolving grade, We follow, unafraid! Dissolve, dissolve this moving world of men Into thin air—and then?

III

O pioneers, O warriors of the Light, In that abysmal night, Will you have courage, then, to rise and tell Earth of this miracle? Will you have courage, then, to bow the head, And say, when all is said—

"Out of this Nothingness arose our thought! This blank abysmal Nought Woke, and brought forth that lighted City street, Those towers, that armoured fleet?" ...

IV

When you have seen those vacant primal skies Beyond the centuries. Watched the pale mists across their darkness flow, As in a lantern-show, Weaving, by merest "chance," out of thin air, Pageants of praise and prayer; Watched the great hills like clouds arise and set, And one—named Olivet; When you have seen, as a shadow passing away, One child clasp hands and pray; When you have seen emerge from that dark mire One martyr, ringed with fire; Or, from that Nothingness, by special grace, One woman's love-lit face, ...

V

Will you have courage, then, to front that law (From which your sophists draw Their only right to flout one human creed) That nothing can proceed— Not even thought, not even love—from less Than its own nothingness? The law is yours! But dare you waive your pride, And kneel where you denied? The law is yours! Dare you re-kindle, then, One faith for faithless men, And say you found, on that dark road you trod, In the beginning—GOD?



THE LAST BATTLE

Kings of the earth, Kings of the earth, the trumpet rings for warning, And like the golden swords that ray from out the setting sun The shout goes out of the trumpet mouth across the hills of morning, Wake; for the last great battle dawns and all the wars are done.

Now all the plains of Europe smoke with marching hooves of thunder, And through each ragged mountain-gorge the guns begin to gleam; And round a hundred cities where the women watch and wonder, The tramp of passing armies aches and faints into a dream.

The King of Ind is drawing nigh: a hundred leagues are clouded Along his loud earth-shaking march from east to western sea: The King o' the Setting Sun is here and all the seas are shrouded With sails that carry half the world to front Eternity.

Soon shall the darkness roll around the grappling of the nations, A darkness lit with deadly gleams of blood and steel and fire; Soon shall the last great paean of earth's war-worn generations Roar through the thunder-clouded air round War's red funeral pyre.

But here defeat and victory are both allied with heaven, The enfolding sky makes every foe the centre of her dome, Each fights for God and his own right, and unto each is given The right to find the heart of heaven where'er he finds his home.

O, who shall win, and who shall lose, and who shall take the glory Here at the meeting of the roads, where every cause is right? O, who shall live, and who shall die, and who shall tell the story? Each strikes for faith and fatherland in that immortal fight.

High on the grey old hills of Time the last immortal rally, Under the storm of the last great tattered flag, shall laugh to see The blood of Armageddon roll from every smoking valley, Shall laugh aloud, then rush on death for God and chivalry.

Kings of the earth, Kings of the earth, O, which of you then shall inherit The Kingdom, the Power and the Glory? for the world's old light grows dim And the cry of you all goes up all night to the dark enfolding Spirit, Each of you fights for God and home; but God, ah, what of Him?



THE PARADOX

"I Am that I Am"

I

All that is broken shall be mended; All that is lost shall be found; I will bind up every wound When that which is begun shall be ended. Not peace I brought among you but a sword To divide the night from the day, When I sent My worlds forth in their battle-array To die and to live, To give and to receive, Saith the Lord.

II

Of old time they said none is good save our God; But ye that have seen how the ages have shrunk from my rod, And how red is the wine-press wherein at my bidding they trod, Have answered and said that with Eden I fashioned the snake, That I mould you of clay for a moment, then mar you and break, And there is none evil but I, the supreme Evil, God. Lo, I say unto both, I am neither; But greater than either; For meeting and mingling in Me they become neither evil nor good; Their cycle is rounded, they know neither hunger nor food, They need neither sickle nor seed-time, nor root nor fruit, They are ultimate, infinite, absolute. Therefore I say unto all that have sinned, East and West and South and North The wings of my measureless love go forth To cover you all: they are free as the wings of the wind.

III

Consider the troubled waters of the sea Which never rest; As the wandering waves are ye; Yet assuaged and appeased and forgiven, As the seas are gathered together under the infinite glory of heaven, I gather you all to my breast. But the sins and the creeds and the sorrows that trouble the sea Relapse and subside, Chiming like chords in a world-wide symphony As they cease to chide; For they break and they are broken of sound and hue, And they meet and they murmur and they mingle anew, Interweaving, intervolving, like waves: they have no stay: They are all made as one with the deep, when they sink and are vanished away; Yea, all is toned at a turn of the tide To a calm and golden harmony; But I—shall I wonder or greatly care, For their depth or their height? Shall it be more than a song in my sight How many wandering waves there were, Or how many colours and changes of light? It is your eyes that see And take heed of these things: they were fashioned for you, not for Me.

IV

With the stars and the clouds I have clothed Myself here for your eyes To behold That which Is. I have set forth the strength of the skies As one draweth a picture before you to make your hearts wise; That the infinite souls I have fashioned may know as I know, Visibly revealed In the flowers of the field, Yea, declared by the stars in their courses, the tides in their flow, And the clash of the world's wide battle as it sways to and fro, Flashing forth as a flame The unnameable Name, The ineffable Word, I am the Lord.

V

I am the End to which the whole world strives: Therefore are ye girdled with a wild desire and shod With sorrow; for among you all no soul Shall ever cease or sleep or reach its goal Of union and communion with the Whole, Or rest content with less than being God. Still, as unending asymptotes, your lives In all their myriad wandering ways Approach Me with the progress of the golden days; Approach Me; for my love contrives That ye should have the glory of this For ever; yea, that life should blend With life and only vanish away From day to wider wealthier day, Like still increasing spheres of light that melt and merge in wider spheres Even as the infinite years of the past melt in the infinite future years. Each new delight of sense, Each hope, each love, each fear, Widens, relumes and recreates each sphere, From a new ring and nimbus of pre-eminence. I am the Sphere without circumference: I only and for ever comprehend All others that within me meet and blend. Death is but the blinding kiss Of two finite infinities; Two finite infinite orbs The splendour of the greater of which absorbs The less, though both like Love have no beginning and no end.

VI

Therefore is Love's own breath Like Knowledge, a continual death; And all his laughter and kisses and tears, And woven wiles of peace and strife, That ever widen thus your temporal spheres, Are making of the memory of your former years A very death in life.

VII

I am that I am; Ye are evil and good; With colour and glory and story and song ye are fed as with food: The cold and the heat, The bitter and the sweet, The calm and the tempest fulfil my Word; Yet will ye complain of my two-edged sword That has fashioned the finite and mortal and given you the sweetness of strife, The blackness and whiteness, The darkness and brightness, Which sever your souls from the formless and void and hold you fast-fettered to life?

VIII

Behold now, is Life not good? Yea, is it not also much more than the food, More than the raiment, more than the breath? Yet Strife is its name! Say, which will ye cast out first from the furnace, the fuel or the flame? Would ye all be as I am; and know neither evil nor good; neither life; neither death; Or mix with the void and the formless till all were as one and the same?

IX

I am that I am; the Container of all things: kneel, lift up your hands To the high Consummation of good and of evil which none understands; The divine Paradox, the ineffable Word, in whose light the poor souls that ye trod Underfoot as too vile for their fellows are at terrible union with God! Am I not over both evil and good, The righteous man and the shedder of blood? Shall I save or slay? I am neither the night nor the day, Saith the Lord. Judge not, oh ye that are round my footstool, judge not, ere the hour be born That shall laugh you also to scorn.

X

Ah, yet I say unto all that have sinned, East and West and South and North The wings of my measureless love go forth To cover you all: they are free as the wings of the wind.

XI

But one thing is needful; and ye shall be true To yourselves and the goal and the God that ye seek; Yea, the day and the night shall requite it to you If ye love one another, if your love be not weak.

XII

Since I sent out my worlds in their battle-array To die and to live, To give and to receive, Not peace, not peace, I have brought among you but a sword, To divide the night from the day, Saith the Lord; Yet all that is broken shall be mended, And all that is lost shall be found, I will bind up every wound, When that which is begun shall be ended.



THE PROGRESS OF LOVE

(A LYRICAL SYMPHONY)

I

In other worlds I loved you, long ago: Love that hath no beginning hath no end. The woodbine whispers, low and sweet and low, In other worlds I loved you, long ago; The firwoods murmur and the sea-waves know The message that the setting sun shall send. In other worlds I loved you, long ago: Love that hath no beginning hath no end.

II

And God sighed in the sunset; and the sea Chanted the soft recessional of Time Against the golden shores of mystery;

And ever as that long low change and chime With one slow sob of molten music yearned Westward, it seemed as if the Love sublime

Almost uttered itself, where the waves burned In little flower-soft flames of rose and green That woke to seaward, while the tides returned

Rising and falling, ruffled and serene, With all the mirrored tints of heaven above Shimmering through their mystic myriad sheen.

As a dove's burnished breast throbbing with love Swells and subsides to call her soft-eyed mate Home through the rosy gloom of glen or grove,

So when the greenwood noon was growing late The sea called softly through the waste of years, Called to the star that still can consecrate

The holy golden haze of human tears Which tinges every sunset with our grief Until the perfect Paraclete appears.

Ah, the long sigh that yields the world relief Rose and relapsed across Eternity, Making a joy of sorrows that are brief,

As, o'er the bright enchantment of the sea, Facing the towers of that old City of Pain Which stands upon the shores of mystery

And frowns across the immeasurable main, Venus among her cloudy sunset flowers Woke; and earth melted into heaven again.

For even the City's immemorial towers Were tinted into secret tone and time, Like old forgotten tombs that age embowers

With muffling roses and with mossy rime Until they seem no monument of ours, But one more note in earth's accordant chime.

O Love, Love, Love, all dreams, desires and powers, Were but as chords of that ineffable psalm; And all the long blue lapse of summer hours,

And all the breathing sunset's golden balm By that aeonian sorrow were resolved As dew into the music's infinite calm,

Through which the suns and moons and stars revolved According to the song's divine decree, Till Time was but a tide of intervolved

And interweaving worlds of melody; In other worlds I loved you, long ago,— The angelic citoles fainted o'er the sea;

And seraph citerns answered, sweet and low, From where the sunset and the moonrise blend,— In other worlds I loved you, long ago;

Love that hath no beginning hath no end; O Love, Love, Love, the bitter City of Pain Bidding the golden echoes westward wend,

Chimed in accordant undertone again: Though every grey old tower rose like a tomb To mock the glory of the shoreless main

They could but strike such discords as illume The music with strange gleams of utter light And hallow all the valley's rosy gloom.

And there, though greyly sinking out of sight Before the wonders of the sky and sea, Back through the valley, back into the night,

While mystery melted into mystery, The City still rebuffed the far sweet West That dimmed her sorrows with infinity;

Yet sometimes yearning o'er the sea's bright breast To that remote Avilion would she gaze Where all lost loves and weary warriors rest.

Then she remembered, through that golden haze, (Oh faint as flowers the rose-white waves resound) Her Arthur whom she loved in the dead days,

And how he sailed to heal him of his wound, And how he lives and reigns eternally Where now that unknown love is throned and crowned

Who laid his bleeding head against her knee And loosed the bitter breast-plate and unbound His casque and brought him strangely o'er the sea,

And how she reigns beside him on that shore For ever (Yrma, queen, bend down to me) And they twain have no sorrow any more.

III

They have forgotten all that vanished away When life's dark night died into death's bright day They have forgotten all except the gleam Of light when once he kissed her in a dream Once on the lips and once upon the brow In the white orb of God's transcendent Now; And even then he knew that, long before, Their eyes had met upon some distant shore; Yea; that most lonely and immortal face Which dwells beyond the dreams of time and space Bowed down to him from out the happy place And whispered to him, low and sweet and low In other worlds I loved you, long ago; And then he knew his love could never die Because his queen was throned beyond the sky And called him to his own immortal sphere Forgetting Launcelot and Guinevere.

So Yrma reigns with Arthur, and they know They loved on earth a million years ago; And watched the sea-waves wistfully westward wend; And heard a voice whispering in their flow, And calling through the silent sunset-glow, Love that hath no beginning hath no end.

IV

It was about the dawn of day I heard Etain and Anwyl say The waving ferns are a fairy forest, It is time, it is time to wander away;

For the dew is bright on the heather bells, And the breeze in the clover sways and swells, As the waves on the blue sea wake and wander, Over and under the braes and dells.

She was eight years old that day, Full of laughter and play; Eight years old and Anwyl nine,— Two young lovers were they.

Two young lovers were they, Born in the City of Pain; There was never a song in the world so gay As the song of the child, Etain;

There was never a laugh so sweet With the ripple of fairy bells, And never a fairy foot so fleet Dancing down the woodland dells!

She was eight years old that day, Two young lovers were they.

There was never a sea of mystical gleams Glooming under enchanted skies Deep as the dark miraculous dreams In Anwyl's haunted eyes.

There was never a glory of light Around the carolling lark As Etain's eyes were brave and bright To daunt the coming dark.

Two young lovers were they Born in the City of Pain; There was never a song in the world so gay As the song of the child, Etain;

Blithe as the wind in the trees, Blithe as the bird on the bough, Blithe as the bees in the sweet Heart's-ease Where Love lies bleeding now.

V

And God sighed in the sunset; and the sea Forgot her sorrow, and all the breathless West Grew quiet as the blue tranquillity

That clad the broken mountain's brilliant breast, Over the City, with deep heather-bloom Heaving from crag to crag in sweet unrest,

A sea of dim rich colour and warm perfume Whose billows rocked the drowsy honey-bee Among the golden isles of gorse and broom

Like some enchanted ancient argosy Drunkenly blundering over seas of dream Past unimagined isles of mystery, Over whose yellow sands the soft waves cream, And sunbeams float and toss across the bare Rose-white arms and perilous breasts that gleam

Where sirens wind their glossy golden hair; Oh, miles on miles, the honeyed heather-bloom Heaving its purple through the high bright air

Rolled a silent glory of gleam and gloom From mossy crag to crag and crest to crest Untroubled by the valley's depth of doom.

The hawk dropped down into the pine-forest And, far below, the lavrock ruffled her wings Blossomwise over her winsome secret nest.

Then suddenly, softly, as when a fairy sings Out of the heart of a rose in the heart of the fern, Or in the floating starlight faintly rings

The frail blue hare-bells—turn again, and turn, Under and over, the silvery crescents cry To where the crimson fox-glove belfries burn

And with a deeper softer peal reply, There came a ripple of music through the roses That rustled on the dimmest rim of sky

Where many a frame of fretted leaves encloses For lovers wandering in the fern-wet wood An arch of summer sea that softly dozes

As if all mysteries were understood: Yrma, my queen, what love could understand That faint sweet music, God saith all is good,

As those two children, hand in sunburnt hand, Over the blithe blue hills and far away Wandered into their own green fairyland?

VI

For the song is lost that shook the dew Where the wild musk-roses glisten, When the sunset dreamed that a dream was true And the birds were hushed to listen.

The song is lost that shook the night With wings of richer fire, Where the years had touched their eyes with light And their souls with a new desire;

And the new delight of the strange old story Burned in the flower-soft skies, And nine more years with a darker glory Had deepened the light of her eyes;

But lost, oh more than lost the song That shook the rose to tears, As hand in hand they danced along Through childhood's everlasting years.

"Oh, Love has wings," the linnet sings; But the dead return no more, no more; And the sea is breaking its old grey heart Against the golden shore.

She was eight years old that day, Two young lovers were they.

If every song as they danced along Paused on the springing spray; Is there never a bird in the wide greenwood Will hush its heart to-day?

There's never a leaf with dew impearled To make their pathway sweet, And never a blossom in all the world That knows the kiss of their feet.

No light to-night declares the word That thrilled the blossomed bough, And stilled the happy singing bird That none can silence now.

The weary nightingale may sob With her bleeding breast against a thorn, And the wild white rose with every throb Grow red as the laugh of morn;

With wings outspread she sinks her head But Love returns no more, no more; And the sea is breaking its old grey heart Against the golden shore.

Born in the City of Pain; Ah, who knows, who knows When Death shall turn to delight again Or a wound to a red, red rose?

Eight years old that day, Full of laughter and play; Eight years old and Anwyl nine,— Two young lovers were they.

VII

And down the scented heather-drowsy hills The barefoot children wandered, hand in hand, And paddled through the laughing silver rills In quest of fairyland; And in each little sunburnt hand a spray, A purple fox-glove bell-branch lightly swung, And Anwyl told Etain how, far away, One day he wandered through the dreamland dells And watched the moonlit fairies as they sung And tolled the fox-glove bells; And oh, how sweetly, sweetly to and fro The fragrance of the music reeled and rung Under the loaded boughs of starry May.

And God sighed in the sunset, and the sea Grew quieter than the hills: the mystery Of ocean, earth and sky was like a word Uttered, but all unheard, Uttered by every wave and cloud and leaf With all the immortal glory of mortal grief; And every wave that broke its heart of gold In music on the rainbow-dazzled shore Seemed telling, strangely telling, evermore A story that must still remain untold.

Oh, Once upon a time, and o'er and o'er As aye the Happy ever after came The enchanted waves lavished their faery lore

And tossed a foam-bow and a rosy flame Around the whispers of the creaming foam, Till the old rapture with the new sweet name

Through all the old romance began to roam, And Anwyl, gazing out across the sea, Dreamed that he heard the distance whisper "Come."

"Etain," he murmured softly and wistfully, With the soul's wakening wonder in his eyes, "Is it not strange to think that there can be

"No end for ever and ever to those skies, No shore beyond, or if there be a shore Still without end the world beyond it lies;

"Think; think, Etain;" and all his faery lore Mixed with the faith that brought all gods to birth And sees new heavens transcend for evermore

The poor impossibilities of earth; But Etain only laughed: the world to her Was one sweet smile of very present mirth;

Its flowers were only flowers, common or rare; Her soul was like a little garden closed By rose-clad walls, a place of southern air Islanded from the Mystery that reposed Its vast and brooding wings on that abyss Through which like little clouds that dreamed and dozed

The thoughts of Anwyl wandered toward some bliss Unknown, unfathomed, far, how far away, Where God has gathered all the eternities Into strange heavens, beyond the night and day.

VIII

And over the rolling golden bay, In the funeral pomp of the dying day, The bell of Time was wistfully tolling A million million years away;

And over the heather-drowsy hill Where the burdened bees were buzzing still, The two little sun-bright barefoot children Wandered down at the flowers' own will;

For still as the bell in the sunset tolled, The meadow-sweet and the mary-gold And the purple orchis kissed their ankles And lured them over the listening wold.

And the feathery billows of blue-gold grass Bowed and murmured and bade them pass, Where a sigh of the sea-wind softly told them There is no Time—Time never was.

And what if a sorrow were tolled to rest Where the rich light mellowed away in the West, As a glory of fruit in an autumn orchard Heaped and asleep o'er the sea's ripe breast?

Why should they heed it, what should they know Of the years that come or the years that go, With the warm blue sky around and above them And the wild thyme whispering to and fro?

For they heard in the dreamy dawn of day A fairy harper faintly play, Follow me, follow me, little children, Over the hills and far away;

Where the dew is bright on the heather-bells, And the breeze in the clover sways and swells, As the waves on the blue sea wake and wander, Over and under the braes and dells.

And the hare-bells tinkled and rang Ding dong Bell in the dell as they danced along, And their feet were stained on the hills with honey, And crushing the clover till evensong.

And, oh the ripples that rolled in rhyme Under the wild blue banks of thyme, To the answering rhyme of the rolling ocean's Golden glory of change and chime!

For they came to a stream and her fairy lover Caught at her hand and swung her over, And the broad wet buttercups laughed and gilded Their golden knees in the deep sweet clover.

There was never a lavrock up in the skies Blithe as the laugh of their lips and eyes, As they glanced and glittered across the meadows To waken the sleepy butterflies.

There was never a wave on the sea so gay As the light that danced on their homeward way Where the waving ferns were a fairy forest And a thousand years as yesterday.

She was eight years old that day, Full of laughter and play; Eight years old and Anwyl nine,— Two young lovers were they.

And when the clouds like folded sheep Were drowsing over the drowsy deep, And like a rose in a golden cradle Anwyl breathed on the breast of sleep,

Or ever the petals and leaves were furled At the vesper-song of the sunset-world, The sleepy young rose of nine sweet summers Dreamed in his rose-bed cosily curled.

And what if the light of his nine bright years Glistened with laughter or glimmered with tears, Or gleamed like a mystic globe around him White as the light of the sphere of spheres?

And what if a glory of angels there, Starring an orb of ineffable air, Came floating down from the Gates of jasper That melt into flowers at a maiden's prayer?

And what if he dreamed of a fairy face Wondering out of some happy place, Quietly as a star at sunset Shines in the rosy dreams of space?

For only as far as the west wind blows The sweets of a swinging full-blown rose, Eight years old and queen of the lilies Little Etain slept—ah, how close!

At a flower-cry over the moonlit lane In a cottage of roses dreamed Etain, And their purple shadows kissed at her lattice And dappled her sigh-soft counterpane;

And or ever Etain with her golden head Had nestled to sleep in her lily-white bed, She breathed a dream to her fairy lover, Please, God, bless Anwyl and me, she said.

And a song arose in the rose-white West, And a whisper of wings o'er the sea's bright breast, And a cry where the moon's old miracle wakened A glory of pearl o'er the pine-forest.

Why should they heed it? What should they know Of the years to come or the years to go? With the starry skies around and above them And the roses whispering to and fro.

Ah, was it a song of the mystic morn When into their beating hearts the thorn Should pierce through the red wet crumpled roses And all the sorrow of love be born?

Ah, was it a cry of the wild wayside Whereby one day they must surely ride, Out of the purple garden of passion To Calvary, to be crucified?

Only the sound of the distant sea Broke on the shores of Mystery, And tolled as a bell might toll for sorrow Till Time be tombed in Eternity;

And in their dreams they only heard Far away, one secret bird Sing, till the passionate purple twilight Throbbed with the wonder of one sweet word:

One sweet word and the wonder awoke, And the leaves and the flowers and the starlight spoke In silent rapture the strange old secret That none e'er knew till the death-dawn broke;

One sweet whisper, and hand in hand They wandered in dreams through fairyland, Rapt in the star-bright mystical music Which only a child can understand.

But never a child in the world can tell The wonderful tale he knows so well, Though ever as old Time dies in the sunset It tolls and tolls like a distant bell.

Love, love, love; and they hardly knew The sense of the glory that round them grew; But the world was a wide enchanted garden; And the song, the song, the song rang true.

And they danced with the fairies in emerald rings Arched by the light of their rainbow wings, And they heard the wild green Harper striking A starlight over the golden strings.

Love, oh love; and they roamed once more Through a forest of flowers on a fairy shore, And the sky was a wild bright laugh of wonder And the West was a dream of the years of yore.

In other worlds I loved you, long ago: Love that hath no beginning hath no end: The heather whispers low and sweet and low, In other worlds I loved you, long ago; The meadows murmur and the firwoods know The message that the kindling East shall send; In other worlds I loved you, long ago: Love that hath no beginning hath no end.

IX

Out of the deep, my dream, out of the deep, Yrma, thy voice came to me in my sleep, And through a rainbow woven of human tears I saw two lovers wandering down the years; Two children, first, that roamed a sunset land, And then two lovers wandering hand in hand, Forgetful of their childhood's Paradise, For nine more years had darkened in their eyes, And heaven itself could hardly find again Anwyl, the star-child, or the flower, Etain.

For on a day in May, as through the wood With earth's new passion beating in his blood He went alone, an empty-hearted youth, Seeking he knew not what white flower of truth Or beauty, on all sides he seemed to see Swift subtle hints of some new harmony, Yet all unheard, ideal, and incomplete, A silent song compact of hopes and fears, A music such as lights the wandering feet Of Yrma when on earth she reappears. And he forgot that sad grey City of Pain, For all earth's old romance returned again, And as he went, his dreaming soul grew glad To think that he might meet with Galahad Or Parsifal in some green glade of fern, Or see between the boughs a helmet burn And hear a joyous laugh kindle the sky As through the wood Sir Launcelot rode by With face upturned to take the sun like wine. Ah, was it love that made the whole world shine Like some great angel's face, blinded with bliss, While Anwyl dreamed of bold Sir Amadis And Guinevere's white arms and Iseult's kiss, And that glad island in a golden sea Where Arthur lives and reigns eternally? Surely the heavens were one wide rose-white flame As down the path to meet him Yrma came; Ah, was it Yrma, with those radiant eyes, That came to greet and lead him through the skies, The skies that gloomed and gleamed so far above The little wandering prayers of human love?... He had forgotten all except the gleam Of light when once he kissed her in a dream, ... For surely then he knew that long before Their eyes had met upon some distant shore.... Ah, was it Yrma whose red lips he met Between the branches, where the leaves were wet? Etain or Yrma, for it seemed her face Bent down upon him from some happy place And whispered to him, low and sweet and low, In other worlds I loved you, long ago! And he, too, knew his love could never die, Because his queen was throned beyond the sky.

Yet In sweet mortal eyes he met her now And kissed Etain beneath the hawthorn bough, And dared to dream his infinite dream was true On earth and reign with Etain, dream he knew Why leaves were green and sides were fresh and blue; Yea, dream he knew, as children dream they know They knew all this a million years ago, And watched the sea-waves wistfully westward wend And heard a voice whispering in their flow And calling through the silent sunset-glow Love that hath no beginning hath no end.

Ah, could they see in the Valley of Gloom That clove the cliffs behind the City; Ah, could they hear in the forest of Doom The peril that neared without pause or pity? Behind the veils of ivy and vine, Wild musk-roses and white woodbine, In glens that were wan as with moonlit tears And rosy with ghosts of eglantine And pale as with lilies of long-past years, Ah, could they see, could they hear, could they know Behind that beautiful outward show, Behind the pomp and glory of life That seething old anarchic strife? For there in many a dim blue glade Where the rank red poppies burned, And if perchance some dreamer strayed He nevermore returned, Cold incarnate memories Of earth's retributory throes, Deadly desires and agonies Dark as the worm that never dies, In the outer night arose, And waited under those wonderful skies With Hydra heads and mocking eyes That winked upon the waning West From out the gloom of the oak-forest, Till all the wild profound of wood That o'er the haunted valley slept Glowed with eyes like pools of blood As, lusting after a hideous food, Through the haggard vistas crept Without a cry, without a hiss, The serpent broods of the abyss. Ancestral folds in darkness furled Since the beginnings of the world. Ring upon awful ring uprose That obscure heritage of foes, The exceeding bitter heritage Which still a jealous God bestows From inappellable age to age, The ghostly worms that softly move Through every grey old corse of love And creep across the coffined years To batten on our blood and tears; And there were hooded shapes of death Gaunt and grey, cruel and blind, Stealing softly as a breath Through the woods that loured behind The City; hooded shapes of fear Slowly, slowly stealing near; While all the gloom that round them rolled With intertwisting coils grew cold. And there with leer and gap-toothed grin Many a gaunt ancestral Sin With clutching fingers, white and thin, Strove to put the boughs aside; And still before them all would glide Down the wavering moon-white track One lissom figure, clad in black; Who wept at mirth and mocked at pain And murmured a song of the wind and the rain; His laugh was wild with a secret grief; His eyes were deep like woodland pools; And, once and again, as his face drew near In a rosy gloaming of eglantere, All the ghosts that gathered there Bowed together, naming his name: Lead us, ah thou Shadow of a Leaf, Child and master of all our shame, Fool of Doubt and King of Fools.

Now the linnet had ended his evensong, And the lark dropt down from his last wild ditty And ruffled his wings and his speckled breast Blossomwise over his June-sweet nest; While winging wistfully into the West As a fallen petal is wafted along The last white sea-mew sought for rest; And, over the gleaming heave and swell Of the swinging seas, Drowsily breathed the dreaming breeze. Then, suddenly, out of the Valley of Gloom That clove the cliffs behind the City, Out of the silent forest of Doom That clothed the valley with clouds of fear Swelled the boom of a distant bell Once, and the towers of the City of Pain Echoed it, without hope or pity. The tale of that tolling who can tell? That dark old music who shall declare? Who shall interpret the song of the bell?

Is it nothing to you, all ye that hear, Sorrowed the bell, Is it nothing to you? Is it nothing to you? the shore-wind cried, Is it nothing to you? the cliffs replied. But the low light laughed and the skies were blue, And this was only the song of the bell.

X

ANWYL

A darkened easement in a darker room Was all his home, whence weary and bowed and white He watched across the slowly gathering gloom The slowly westering light.

Bitterness in his heavy-clouded eyes, Bitterness as of heaven's intestine wars Brooded; he looked upon the unfathomed skies And whispered—to the stars—

Some day, he said, she will forget all this That she calls life, and looking far above See throned among the great eternities This dream of mine, this love;

Love that has given my soul these wings of fire To beat in glory above the sapphire sea, Until the wings of the infinite desire Close in infinity;

Love that has taken the glory of hawthorn boughs, And all the dreaming beauty of hazel skies, As ministers to the radiance of her brows And haunted April eyes;

Love that is hidden so deep beneath the dust Of little daily duties and delights, Till that reproachful face of hers grows just And God at last requites

A soul whose dream was deeper than the skies, A heart whose hope was wider than the sea, Yet could not enter through his true love's eyes Their grey infinity.

And so I know I wound her all day long Because my heart must seem so far away; And even my love completes the silent wrong For all that it can say

Seems vast and meaningless to mortal sense; Its vague desire can never reach its goal Till knowledge vanishes in omniscience And God surrounds her soul, Breaking its barriers down and flooding in Through all her wounds in one almighty tide, Mingling her soul with that great Love wherein My soul waits, glorified.

XI

ETAIN

My love is dying, dying in my heart; There is no song in heaven for such as I Who watch the days and years of youth depart, The bloom decay and die;

The rose that withers in the hollow cheek, The leaden rings that mark us old and wise; And Time that writes what Pity dares not speak Around the fading eyes.

He dreams he loves; but only loves his dream; And in his dream he never can forget Abana seems a so much mightier stream And Pharpar wider yet;

The little deeds of love that light the shrine Of common daily duties with such gleams Of heaven, to me are scarcely less divine Than those poor wandering dreams

Of deeds that never happen! I give him this, This heart he cannot find in heaven above; This heart, this heart of all the eternities, This life of mine, this love;

Love that is lord of all the world at once And never bade the encircled spirit roam To the circle's bound, beyond the moons and suns, But makes each heart its home, And every home the heart of Space and Time, And each and all a heaven if love could reign; One infinite untranscended heaven sublime With God's own joy and pain.

Why, that was what God meant, to set us here In Eden, when he saw that all was good; And we have made the sun black with despair, And turned the moon to blood.

So has Love taught me that too learned tongue, And in his poorer wisdom made me wise; I grew so proud of the red drops we wrung From all philosophies.

My heart is narrow, foolish, what you will; But this I know God meant who set us here, And gave each soul the Infinities to fulfil From its own widening sphere.

To annex new regions to the soul's domain, To expand the circle of the golden hours, Till it enfolds again and yet again New heavens, new fields, new flowers,

Oh, this is well; but still the central heart Is here at home, not wandering like the wind That gathers nothing, but must still depart Leaving a waste behind.

Where is the song I sang that April morn, When all the poet in his eyes awoke My sleeping heart to heaven; and love was born? For while the glad day broke

We met; and as the softly kindling skies Thrilled through the scented vistas of the wood I felt the sudden love-light in his eyes Kindle my beating blood.

Happy day, happy day, Chasing the clouds of the night away And bidding the dreams of the dawn depart Over the freshening April blue, Till the blossoms awake to welcome the May, And the world is made anew; And the blackbird sings on the dancing spray With eyes of glistening dew; "Happy, happy, happy day;" For he knows that his love is true; He knows that his love is true, my heart, He knows that his love is true!

I cannot sing it: these tears blind me: love, O love, come back before it is too late, Why, even Christ came down to us from above: I think His love was great;

Yet he stood knocking, knocking at the door Until his piteous hands were worn with scars; He did not hide that crown of love he wore Among the lonely stars.

This round of hours, the daily flowers I cull Are more to me than all the rolling spheres, A wounded bird at hand more pitiful Than some great seraph's tears.

How should I join the great wise choir above With my starved spirit's pale inhuman dearth, Who never heard the cry of heavenly love Rise from the sweet-souled earth?

Yet it is I he needs, and I for whom His greed exceeds, his dreams fly wide of the mark! Is it all self? I wander in the gloom; The ways of God grow dark; I watch the rose that withers in the cheek, The leaden rings that mark us old and wise; And Time that writes what Pity dares not speak Around the fading eyes.

XII

And ever as Anwyl went the unknown end Faded before him, back and back and back He saw new empty heavens for ever bend Over his endless track;

And memory, burning with new hopeless fire, Showed him how every passing infinite hour Made some new Crucifix for the World's Desire Is some new wayside flower:

He saw what joy and beauty owed to death; How all the world was one great sacrifice Of Him, in whom all creatures that draw breath Share God's eternal skies;

How Love is lord of all the world at once; And never bids the encircled spirit roam To the circle's bound, beyond the moons and suns, But makes each heart its home,

And every home the heart of Space and Time, And each and all a heaven if love could reign One infinite untranscended heaven sublime With God's own joy and pain.

XIII

Out of the deep, my dream, out of the deep, A little child came to him in his sleep And led him back to what was Paradise Before the years had darkened in his eyes, And showed him what he ne'er could lose again— The light that once enshrined the child Etain.

Ah, was it Yrma with those radiant eyes That came to greet and lead him through the skies; Ay; all the world was one wide rose-white flame, As down the path to meet him Yrma came And caught the child up in her arms and cried, This is my child that moved in Etain's side, Thy child and Etain's: I the unknown ideal And she the rich, the incarnate, breathing real Are one; for me thou never canst attain But by the love I yield thee for Etain; Even as through Christ thy soul allays its dearth, Love's heaven is only compassed upon earth; And by that love, in thine own Etain's eyes Thou shalt find all God's untranscended skies.

As of old, as of old, with Etain that day, Over the hills, and far away, He roamed thro' the fairy forests of fern: Two young lovers were they.

And God sighed in the sunset, and the sea Grew quieter than the hills: the mystery Of ocean, earth and sky was like a word Uttered, but all unheard, Uttered by every wave and cloud and leaf With all the immortal glory of mortal grief; And every wave that broke its heart of gold In music on the rainbow-dazzled shore Seemed telling, strangely telling, evermore A story that must still remain untold.

Oh, Once upon a time, and o'er and o'er As aye the Happy ever after came The enchanted waves lavished their faery lore

And tossed a foam-bow and a rosy flame Around the whispers of the creaming foam, Till the old rapture with the new sweet name Through all the old romance began to roam.

XIV

And those two lovers only heard —Oh, love is a dream that knows no waking— Far away, one secret bird, Where all the roses breathed one word, And every crispel on the beach— Oh, love is a sea that is ever breaking!— Lisped it in a sweeter speech; As hand in hand, by the sunset sea That breaks on the shores of mystery, They stood in the gates of the City of Pain To watch the wild waves flutter and beat In roses of white soft light at their feet, Roses of delicate music and light, Music and moonlight under their feet. Crumbling and flashing and softly crashing In rainbow colours that dazzle and wane And wither and waken and, wild with delight, Dance and dance to a mystic tune And scatter their leaves in a flower-soft rain Over the shimmering golden shore Between the West and the waking moon, Between the sunset and the night; And then they sigh for the years of yore And gather their glory together again, Petal by petal and gleam by gleam, Till, all in one rushing rose-bright stream They dazzle back to the deep once more, For the dream of the sea is an endless dream, And love is a sea that hath no shore, And the roses dance as they danced before.

XV

In other worlds I loved you, long ago: Love that hath no beginning hath no end: Low to her heart he breathed it, sweet and low; In other worlds I loved you, long ago; This is a word that all the sea-waves know And whisper as through the shoreless West they wend, In other worlds I loved you, long ago: Love that hath no beginning hath no end.

XVI

"Yet love can die!" she murmured once again; For this was in that City by the Sea, That old grey City of Pain, Built on the shifting shores of Mystery And mocked by all the immeasurable main. "Love lives to die!" Under the deep eternal sky His deeper voice caught up that deep refrain;

"A year ago, and under yonder sun Earth had no Heaven to hold our hearts in one! For me there was no love, afar or nigh: And, O, if love were thus in time begun, Love, even our love, in time must surely die." Then memory murmured, "No"; And he remembered, a million years ago, He saw the sea-waves wistfully westward wend; And heard her voice whispering in their flow And calling through the silent sunset-glow. Love that hath no beginning hath no end.

"Love dies to live!" How wild, how deep the joy That knows no death can e'er destroy What cannot bear destruction! By these eyes I know that, ere the fashioning of the skies, Or ever the sun and moon and stars were made I loved you. Sweet, I am no more afraid.

"Love lives to die!" Under the deep eternal sky Her wild sweet voice caught up that deep refrain: There, in that silent City by the Sea, Listening the wild-wave music of Infinity, There, in that old grey City of mortal pain, Their voices mingled in mystic unison With that immortal harmony Which holds the warring worlds in one.

Their Voice, one Voice, yet manifold, Possessed the seas, the fields, the sky, With utterance of the dream that cannot die; Possessed the West's wild rose and dappled gold, And that old secret of the setting sun Which, to the glory of Eternity, Time, tolling like a distant bell, Evermore faints to tell, And, ever telling, never yet has told. One, and yet manifold Arose their Voice, oh strangely one again With murmurs of the immeasurable main; As, far beyond earth's cloudy bars, Their Soul surpassed the sunset and the stars, And all the heights and depths of temporal pain, Till seas of seraph music round them rolled.

And in that mystic plane They felt their mortal years Break away as a dream of pain Breaks in a stream of tears.

Love, of whom life had birth, See now, is death not sweet? Love, is this heaven or earth? Both are beneath thy feet.

Nay, both within thy heart! O Love, the glory nears; The Gates of Pearl are flung apart, The Rose of Heaven appears.

Across the deeps of change, Like pangs of visible song, What angel-spirits, remote and strange, Thrill through the starry throng?

And oh, what wind that blows Over the mystic Tree, What whisper of the sacred Rose, What murmur of the sapphire Sea, What dreams that faint and fail From harps of burning gold, But tell in heaven the sweet old tale An earthly sunset told?

Hark! like a holy bell Over that spirit Sea, Time, in the world it loves so well, Tolls for Eternity.

Earth calls us once again, And, through the mystic Gleam, The grey old City of mortal pain Dawns on the heavenly dream.

Sweet as the voice of birds At dawn, the years return, With little songs and sacred words Of human hearts that yearn.

The sweet same waves resound Along our earthly shore; But now this earth we lost and found Is heaven for evermore.

Hark! how the cosmic choir, In sea and flower and sun, Recalls that triumph of desire Which made all music one:

One universal soul, Completing joy with pain, And harmonising with the Whole The temporal refrain,

Until from hill and plain, From bud and blossom and tree, From shadow and shining after rain, From cloud and clovered bee, From earth and sea and sky, From laughter and from tears, One molten golden harmony Fulfils the yearning years.

Love, of whom death had birth, See now, is life not sweet? Love, is this heaven or earth? Both are beneath thy feet.

In other worlds I loved you, long ago; Love that hath no beginning hath no end; The sea-waves whisper, low and sweet and low, In other worlds I loved you, long ago; The May-boughs murmur and the roses know The message that the dawning moon shall send; In other worlds I loved you, long ago; Love that hath no beginning hath no end.



THE FOREST OF WILD THYME

DEDICATED TO HELEN, ROSIE, AND BEATRIX



PERSONS OF THE TALE

OURSELVES FATHER MOTHER LITTLE BOY BLUE THE HIDEOUS HERMIT THE KING OF FAIRY-LAND PEASE-BLOSSOM MUSTARD-SEED Dragons, Fairies, Mammoths, Angels, etc.

APOLOGIA

One more hour to wander free With Puck on his unbridled bee Thro' heather-forests, leagues of bloom, Our childhood's maze of scent and sun! Forbear awhile your notes of doom, Dear Critics, give me still this one Swift hour to hunt the fairy gleam That flutters thro' the unfettered dream. It mocks me as it flies, I know: All too soon the gleam will go; Yet I love it and shall love My dream that brooks no narrower bars Than bind the darkening heavens above, My Jack o'Lanthorn of the stars: Then, I'll follow it no more, I'll light the lamp: I'll close the door.

PRELUDE

Hush! if you remember how we sailed to old Japan, Peterkin was with us then, our little brother Peterkin! Now we've lost him, so they say: I think the tall thin man Must have come and touched him with his curious twinkling fan And taken him away again, our merry little Peterkin; He'll be frightened all alone; we'll find him if we can; Come and look for Peterkin, poor little Peterkin.

No one would believe us if we told them what we know, Or they wouldn't grieve for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin! If they'd only watched us roaming through the streets of Miyako, And travelling in a palanquin where parents never go, And seen the golden gardens where we wandered once with Peterkin, And smelt the purple orchards where the cherry-blossoms blow, They wouldn't mourn for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin.

Put away your muskets, lay aside the drum, Hang it by the wooden sword we made for little Peterkin! He was once our trumpeter, now his bugle's dumb, Pile your arms beneath it, for the owlet light is come, We'll wander through the roses where we marched of old with Peterkin, We'll search the summer sunset where the Hybla beehives hum, And—if we meet a fairy there—we'll ask for news of Peterkin.

He was once our cabin-boy and cooked the sweets for tea; And O, we've sailed around the world with laughing little Peterkin; From nursery floor to pantry door we've roamed the mighty sea, And come to port below the stairs in distant Caribee, But wheresoe'er we sailed we took our little lubber Peterkin, Because his wide grey eyes believed much more than ours could see, And so we liked our Peterkin, our trusty little Peterkin.

Peterkin, Peterkin, I think if you came back The captain of our host to-day should be the bugler Peterkin, And he should lead our smugglers up that steep and narrow track, A band of noble brigands, bearing each a mighty pack Crammed with lace and jewels to the secret cave of Peterkin, And he should wear the biggest boots and make his pistol crack,— The Spanish cloak, the velvet mask, we'd give them all to Peterkin.

Come, my brother pirates, I am tired of play; Come and look for Peterkin, little brother Peterkin, Our merry little comrade that the fairies took away, For people think we've lost him, and when we come to say Our good-night prayers to mother, if we pray for little Peterkin Her eyes are very sorrowful, she turns her head away. Come and look for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin.

God bless little Peterkin, wherever he may be! Come and look for Peterkin, lonely little Peterkin: I wonder if they've taken him again across the sea From the town of Wonder-Wander and the Amfalula tree To the land of many marvels where we roamed of old with Peterkin, The land of blue pagodas and the flowery fields of tea! Come and look for Peterkin, poor little Peterkin.

PART I

THE SPLENDID SECRET

Now father stood engaged in talk With mother on that narrow walk Between the laurels (where we play At Red-skins lurking for their prey) And the grey old wall of roses Where the Persian kitten dozes And the sunlight sleeps upon Crannies of the crumbling stone —So hot it is you scarce can bear Your naked hand upon it there, Though there luxuriating in heat With a slow and gorgeous beat White-winged currant-moths display Their spots of black and gold all day.—

Well, since we greatly wished to know Whether we too might some day go Where little Peterkin had gone Without one word and all alone, We crept up through the laurels there Hoping that we might overhear The splendid secret, darkly great, Of Peterkin's mysterious fate; And on what high adventure bound He left our pleasant garden-ground, Whether for old Japan once more He voyaged from the dim blue shore, Or whether he set out to run By candle-light to Babylon.

We just missed something father said About a young prince that was dead, A little warrior that had fought And failed: how hopes were brought to nought He said, and mortals made to bow Before the Juggernaut of Death, And all the world was darker now, For Time's grey lips and icy breath Had blown out all the enchanted lights That burned in Love's Arabian nights; And now he could not understand Mother's mystic fairy-land, "Land of the dead, poor fairy-tale," He murmured, and her face grew pale, And then with great soft shining eyes She leant to him—she looked so wise— And, with her cheek against his cheek, We heard her, ah so softly, speak.

"Husband, there was a happy day, Long ago, in love's young May, When with a wild-flower in your hand You echoed that dead poet's cry— 'Little flower, but if I could understand!' And you saw it had roots in the depths of the sky, And there in that smallest bud lay furled The secret and meaning of all the world."

He shook his head and then he tried To kiss her, but she only cried And turned her face away and said, "You come between me and my dead! His soul is near me, night and day, But you would drive it far away; And you shall never kiss me now Until you lift that brave old brow Of faith I know so well; or else Refute the tale the skylark tells, Tarnish the glory of that May, Explain the Smallest Flower away." And still he said, "Poor fairy-tales, How terribly their starlight pales Before the solemn sun of truth That rises o'er the grave of youth!"

"Is heaven a fairy-tale?" she said,— And once again he shook his head; And yet we ne'er could understand Why heaven should not be fairy-land, A part of heaven at least, and why The thought of it made mother cry, And why they went away so sad, And father still quite unforgiven, For what could children be but glad To find a fairy-land in heaven?

And as we talked it o'er we found Our brains were really spinning round; But Dick, our eldest, late returned From school, by all the lore he'd learned Declared that we should seek the lost Smallest Flower at any cost. For, since within its leaves lay furled The secret of the whole wide world, He thought that we might learn therein The whereabouts of Peterkin; And, if we found the Flower, we knew Father would be forgiven, too; And mother's kiss atone for all The quarrel by the rose-hung wall; We knew, not how we knew not why, But Dick it was who bade us try, Dick made it all seem plain and clear, And Dick it is who helps us here To tell this tale of fairy-land In words we scarce can understand. For ere another golden hour Had passed, our anxious parents found We'd left the scented garden-ground To seek—the Smallest Flower.

PART II

THE FIRST DISCOVERY

O, grown-ups cannot understand And grown-ups never will, How short's the way to fairy-land Across the purple hill: They smile: their smile is very bland, Their eyes are wise and chill; And yet—at just a child's command— The world's an Eden still.

Under the cloudy lilac-tree, Out at the garden-gate, We stole, a little band of three, To tempt our fairy fate. There was no human eye to see, No voice to bid us wait; The gardener had gone home to tea, The hour was very late.

I wonder if you've ever dreamed, In summer's noonday sleep, Of what the thyme and heather seemed To ladybirds that creep Like little crimson shimmering gems Between the tiny twisted stems Of fairy forests deep; And what it looks like as they pass Through jungles of the golden grass.

If you could suddenly become As small a thing as they, A midget-child, a new Tom Thumb, A little gauze-winged fay, Oh then, as through the mighty shades Of wild thyme woods and violet glades You groped your forest-way, How fraught each fragrant bough would be With dark o'erhanging mystery.

How high the forest aisles would loom, What wondrous wings would beat Through gloamings loaded with perfume In many a rich retreat, While trees like purple censers bowed And swung beneath a swooning cloud Mysteriously sweet, Where flowers that haunt no mortal clime Burden the Forest of Wild Thyme.

We'd watched the bats and beetles flit Through sunset-coloured air The night that we discovered it And all the heavens were bare: We'd seen the colours melt and pass Like silent ghosts across the grass To sleep—our hearts knew where; And so we rose, and hand in hand We sought the gates of fairy-land.

For Peterkin, oh Peterkin, The cry was in our ears, A fairy clamour, clear and thin From lands beyond the years; A wistful note, a dying fall As of the fairy bugle-call Some dreamful changeling hears, And pines within his mortal home Once more through fairy-land to roam.

We left behind the pleasant row Of cottage window-panes, The village inn's red-curtained glow, The lovers in the lanes; And stout of heart and strong of will We climbed the purple perfumed hill, And hummed the sweet refrains Of fairy tunes the tall thin man Taught us of old in Old Japan.

So by the tall wide-barred church-gate Through which we all could pass We came to where that curious plate, That foolish plate of brass, Said Peterkin was fast asleep Beneath a cold and ugly heap Of earth and stones and grass. It was a splendid place for play, That churchyard, on a summer's day;

A splendid place for hide-and-seek Between the grey old stones; Where even grown-ups used to speak In awestruck whispering tones; And here and there the grass ran wild In jungles for the creeping child, And there were elfin zones Of twisted flowers and words in rhyme And great sweet cushions of wild thyme.

So in a wild thyme snuggery there We stayed awhile to rest; A bell was calling folk to prayer: One star was in the West: The cottage lights grew far away, The whole sky seemed to waver and sway Above our fragrant nest; And from a distant dreamland moon Once more we heard that fairy tune:

Why, mother once had sung it us When, ere we went to bed, She told the tale of Pyramus, How Thisbe found him dead And mourned his eyes as green as leeks, His cherry nose, his cowslip cheeks.

That tune would oft around us float Since on a golden noon We saw the play that Shakespeare wrote Of Lion, Wall, and Moon; Ah, hark—the ancient fairy theme— Following darkness like a dream!

The very song Will Shakespeare sang, The music that through Sherwood rang And Arden and that forest glade Where Hermie and Lysander strayed, And Puck cried out with impish glee, Lord, what fools these mortals be! Though the masquerade was mute Of Quince and Snout and Snug and Flute, And Bottom with his donkey's head Decked with roses, white and red, Though the fairies had forsaken Sherwood now and faintly shaken The forest-scents from off their feet, Yet from some divine retreat Came the music, sweet and clear, To hang upon the raptured ear With the free unfettered sway Of blossoms in the moon of May. Hark! the luscious fluttering Of flower-soft words that kiss and cling, And part again with sweet farewells, And rhyme and chime like fairy-bells.

"I know a bank where the wild thyme blows Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine."

Out of the undiscovered land So sweetly rang the song, We dreamed we wandered, hand in hand, The fragrant aisles along, Where long ago had gone to dwell In some enchanted distant dell The outlawed fairy throng When out of Sherwood's wildest glen They sank, forsaking mortal men.

And as we dreamed, the shadowy ground Seemed gradually to swell; And a strange forest rose around, But how—we could not tell— Purple against a rose-red sky The big boughs brooded silently: Far off we heard a bell; And, suddenly, a great red light Smouldered before our startled sight.

Then came a cry, a fiercer flash, And down between the trees We saw great crimson figures crash, Wild-eyed monstrosities; Great dragon-shapes that breathed a flame From roaring nostrils as they came: We sank upon our knees; And looming o'er us, ten yards high, Like battle-ships they thundered by.

And then, as down that mighty dell We followed, faint with fear, We understood the tolling bell That called the monsters there; For right in front we saw a house Woven of wild mysterious boughs Bursting out everywhere In crimson flames, and with a shout The monsters rushed to put it out.

And, in a flash, the truth was ours; And there we knew—we knew— The meaning of those trees like flowers, Those boughs of rose and blue, And from the world we'd left above A voice came crooning like a dove To prove the dream was true: And this—we knew it by the rhyme Must be—the Forest of Wild Thyme.

For out of the mystical rose-red dome Of heaven the voice came murmuring down: Oh, Ladybird, Ladybird, fly away home; Your house is on fire and your children are gone.

We knew, we knew it by the rhyme, Though we seemed, after all, No tinier, yet the sweet wild thyme Towered like a forest tall All round us; oh, we knew not how. And yet—we knew those monsters now: Our dream's divine recall Had dwarfed us, as with magic words; The dragons were but ladybirds!

And all around us as we gazed, Half glad, half frightened, all amazed, The scented clouds of purple smoke In lurid gleams of crimson broke; And o'er our heads the huge black trees Obscured the sky's red mysteries; While here and there gigantic wings Beat o'er us, and great scaly things Fold over monstrous leathern fold Out of the smouldering copses rolled; And eyes like blood-red pits of flame From many a forest-cavern came To glare across the blazing glade, Till, with the sudden thought dismayed, We wondered if we e'er should find The mortal home we left behind: Fear clutched us in a grisly grasp, We gave one wild and white-lipped gasp, Then turned and ran, with streaming hair, Away, away, and anywhere!

And hurry-skurry, heart and heel and hand, we tore along, And still our flying feet kept time and pattered on for Peterkin, For Peterkin, oh Peterkin, it made a kind of song To prove the road was right although it seemed so dark and wrong, As through the desperate woods we plunged and ploughed for little Peterkin, Where many a hidden jungle-beast made noises like a gong That rolled and roared and rumbled as we rushed along to Peterkin.

Peterkin, Peterkin, if you could only hear And answer us, one little word from little lonely Peterkin To take and comfort father, he is sitting in his chair In the library: he's listening for your footstep on the stair And your patter down the passage, he can only think of Peterkin: Come back, come back to father, for to-day he'd let us tear His newest book to make a paper-boat for little Peterkin.

PART III

THE HIDEOUS HERMIT

Ah, what wonders round us rose When we dared to pause and look, Curious things that seemed all toes, Goblins from a picture-book; Ants like witches, four feet high, Waving all their skinny arms, Glared at us and wandered by, Muttering their ancestral charms.

Stately forms in green and gold Armour strutted through the glades, Just as Hamlet's ghost, we're told, Mooned among the midnight shades:

Once a sort of devil came Scattering broken trees about, Winged with leather, eyed with flame,— He was but a moth, no doubt.

Here and there, above us clomb Feathery clumps of palm on high: Those were ferns, of course, but some Really seemed to touch the sky; Yes; and down one fragrant glade, Listening as we onward stole, Half delighted, half afraid, Dong, we heard the hare-bells toll!

Something told us what that gleam Down the glen was brooding o'er; Something told us in a dream What the bells were tolling for! Something told us there was fear, Horror, peril, on our way! Was it far or was it near? Near, we heard the night-wind say.

Toll, the music reeled and pealed Through the vast and sombre trees, Where a rosy light revealed Dimmer, sweeter mysteries; And, like petals of the rose, Fairy fans in beauty beat, Light in light—ah, what were those Rhymes we heard the night repeat?

Toll, a dream within a dream, Up an aisle of rose and blue, Up the music's perfumed stream Came the words, and then we knew,

Knew that in that distant glen Once again the case was tried, Hark!—Who killed Cock Robin, then? And a tiny voice replied, "I killed Cock Robin!"

"I! And who are You, sir, pray?" Growled a voice that froze our marrow: "Who!" we heard the murderer say, "Lord, sir, I'm the famous Sparrow, And this 'ere's my bow and arrow! I killed Cock Robin!"

Then, with one great indrawn breath, Such a sighin' and a sobbin' Rose all round us for the death Of poor, poor Cock Robin, Oh, we couldn't bear to wait Even to hear the murderer's fate, Which we'd often wished to know Sitting in the fireside glow And with hot revengeful looks Searched for in the nursery-books; For the Robin and the Wren Are such friends to mortal men, Such dear friends to mortal men!

Toll; and through the woods once more Stole we, drenched with fragrant dew: Toll; the hare-bell's burden bore Deeper meanings than we knew: Still it told us there was fear, Horror, peril on our way! Was it far or was it near? Near, we heard the night-wind say!

Near; and once or twice we saw Something like a monstrous eye, Something like a hideous claw Steal between us and the sky: Still we hummed a dauntless tune Trying to think such things might be Glimpses of the fairy moon Hiding in some hairy tree.

Yet around us as we went Through the glades of rose and blue Sweetness with the horror blent Wonder-wild in scent and hue: Here Aladdin's cavern yawned, Jewelled thick with gorgeous dyes; There a head of clover dawned Like a cloud In eastern skies.

Hills of topaz, lakes of dew, Fairy cliffs of crystal sheen Passed we; and the forest's blue Sea of branches tossed between: Once we saw a gryphon make One soft iris as it passed Like the curving meteor's wake O'er the forest, far and fast.

Winged with purple, breathing flame, Crimson-eyed we saw him go, Where—ah! could it be the same Cockchafer we used to know?— Valley-lilies overhead, High aloof in clustered spray, Far through heaven their splendour spread, Glimmering like the Milky Way.

Mammoths father calls "extinct," Creatures that the cave-men feared, Through that forest walked and blinked, Through that jungle crawled and leered; Beasts no Nimrod ever knew, Woolly bears black and red; Crocodiles, we wondered who Ever dared to see them fed,

Were they lizards? If they were, They could swallow us with ease; But they slumbered quietly there In among the mighty trees; Red and silver, blue and green, Played the moonlight on their scales; Golden eyes they had, and lean Crooked legs with cruel nails.

Yet again, oh, faint and far, Came the shadow of a cry, Like the calling of a star To its brother in the sky; Like an echo in a cave Where young mermen sound their shells, Like the wind across a grave Bright with scent of lily-bells.

Like a fairy hunter's horn Sounding in some purple glen Sweet revelly to the morn And the fairy quest again: Then, all round it surged a song We could never understand Though it lingered with us long, And it seemed so sad and grand.