Hold by right and rule by fearTill the slowly broadening sphereMelting through the skies aboveMerge into the sphere of love.Hold by might until you findMight is powerless o'er the mind:Hold by Truth until you see,Though they bow before the wind,Its towers can mock at liberty.Time, the seneschal, is blind;Time is blind: and what are we?Captives of Infinity,Claiming through Truth's prison barsKinship with the wandering stars.O, who could tell the wild weird sightsWe saw in all the days and nightsWe travelled through those forests old.We saw the griffons on white cliffs,Among fantastic hieroglyphs,Guarding enormous heaps of gold:We saw the Ghastroi—curious menWho dwell, like tigers, in a den,And howl whene'er the moon is cold;They stripe themselves with red and blackAnd ride upon the yellow Yak.Their dens are always ankle-deepWith twisted knives, and in their sleepThey often cut themselves; they sayThat if you wish to live in peaceThe surest way is not to ceaseCollecting knives; and never a dayCan pass, unless they buy a few;And as their enemies buy them tooThey all avert the impending fray,And starve their children and their wivesTo buy the necessary knives.* * * *The forest leapt with shadowy shapesAs we came to the great black Tower of Apes:But we gave them purple figs and grapesIn alabaster amphoras:We gave them curious kinds of fruitWith betel nuts and orris-root,And then they let us pass:And when we reached the Tower of SnakesWe gave them soft white honey-cakes,And warm sweet milk in bowls of brass:And on the hundredth eve we foundThe City of the Secret Wound.We saw the mystic blossoms blowRound the City, far below;Faintly in the sunset glowWe saw the soft blue glory flowO'er many a golden garden gate:And o'er the tiny dark green seasOf tamarisks and tulip-trees,Domes like golden orangesDream aloft elate.And clearer, clearer as we went,We heard from tower and battlementA whisper, like a warning, sentFrom watchers out of sight;And clearer, brighter, as we drewClose to the walls, we saw the blueFlashing of plumes where peacocks flewThro' zones of pearly light.On either side, a fat black bonzeGuarded the gates of red-wrought bronze,Blazoned with blue sea-dragonsAnd mouths of yawning flame;Down the road of dusty red,Though their brown feet ached and bled,Our coolies went with joyful tread:Like living fans the gates outspreadAnd opened as we came.
Hold by right and rule by fearTill the slowly broadening sphereMelting through the skies aboveMerge into the sphere of love.
Hold by might until you findMight is powerless o'er the mind:Hold by Truth until you see,Though they bow before the wind,Its towers can mock at liberty.
Time, the seneschal, is blind;Time is blind: and what are we?Captives of Infinity,Claiming through Truth's prison barsKinship with the wandering stars.
O, who could tell the wild weird sightsWe saw in all the days and nightsWe travelled through those forests old.We saw the griffons on white cliffs,Among fantastic hieroglyphs,Guarding enormous heaps of gold:
We saw the Ghastroi—curious menWho dwell, like tigers, in a den,And howl whene'er the moon is cold;They stripe themselves with red and blackAnd ride upon the yellow Yak.
Their dens are always ankle-deepWith twisted knives, and in their sleepThey often cut themselves; they sayThat if you wish to live in peaceThe surest way is not to ceaseCollecting knives; and never a dayCan pass, unless they buy a few;And as their enemies buy them tooThey all avert the impending fray,And starve their children and their wivesTo buy the necessary knives.
* * * *
The forest leapt with shadowy shapesAs we came to the great black Tower of Apes:But we gave them purple figs and grapesIn alabaster amphoras:We gave them curious kinds of fruitWith betel nuts and orris-root,And then they let us pass:And when we reached the Tower of SnakesWe gave them soft white honey-cakes,And warm sweet milk in bowls of brass:And on the hundredth eve we foundThe City of the Secret Wound.
We saw the mystic blossoms blowRound the City, far below;Faintly in the sunset glowWe saw the soft blue glory flowO'er many a golden garden gate:And o'er the tiny dark green seasOf tamarisks and tulip-trees,Domes like golden orangesDream aloft elate.
And clearer, clearer as we went,We heard from tower and battlementA whisper, like a warning, sentFrom watchers out of sight;And clearer, brighter, as we drewClose to the walls, we saw the blueFlashing of plumes where peacocks flewThro' zones of pearly light.
On either side, a fat black bonzeGuarded the gates of red-wrought bronze,Blazoned with blue sea-dragonsAnd mouths of yawning flame;Down the road of dusty red,Though their brown feet ached and bled,Our coolies went with joyful tread:Like living fans the gates outspreadAnd opened as we came.
The white moon dawned; the sunset died;And stars were trembling when we spiedThe rose-red temple of our dreams:Its lamp-lit gardens glimmered coolWith many an onyx-paven pool,Amid soft sounds of flowing streams;Where star-shine shimmered through the whiteTall fountain-shafts of crystal lightIn ever changing rainbow-gleams.Priests in flowing yellow robesGlided under rosy globesThrough the green pomegranate boughsMoonbeams poured their coloured rain;Roofs of sea-green porcelainJutted o'er the rose-red house;Bells were hung beneath its eaves;Every wind that stirred the leavesTinkled as tired water does.The temple had a low broad baseOf black bright marble; all its faceWas marble bright in rosy bloom;And where two sea-green pillars roseDeep in the flower-soft eave-shadowsWe saw, thro' richly sparkling gloom,Wrought in marvellous years of oldWith bulls and peacocks bossed in gold,The doors of powdered lacquer loom.Quietly then the tall thin man,Holding his turquoise-tinted fan,Alighted from the palanquin;We followed: never painter dreamedOf how that dark rich temple gleamedWith gules of jewelled gloom within;And as we wondered near the doorA priest came o'er the polished floorIn sandals of soft serpent-skin;His mitre shimmered bright and blueWith pigeon's breast-plumes. When he knewOur quest he stroked his broad white chin,And looked at us with slanting eyesAnd smiled; then through his deep disguiseWe knew him! It was Creeping Sin!But cunningly he bowed his headDown on his gilded breast and saidCome: and he led us through the duskOf passages whose painted wallsGleamed with dark old festivals;Till where the gloom grew sweet with muskAnd incense, through a door of amberWe came into a high-arched chamber.There on a throne of jasper satA monstrous idol, black and fat;Thick rose-oil dropped upon its head:Drop by drop, heavy and sweet,Trickled down to its ebon feetWhereon the blood of goats was shed,And smeared around its perfumed kneesIn savage midnight mysteries.It wore about its bulging waistA belt of dark green bronze enchasedWith big, soft, cloudy pearls; its wristsWere clasped about with moony gemsGathered from dead kings' diadems;Its throat was ringed with amethysts,And in its awful hand it heldA softly smouldering emerald.Silkily murmured Creeping Sin,"This is the stone you wished to win!""White Snake," replied the tall thin man,"Show us the Ruby Stone, or IWill slay thee with my hands." The slyLong eyelids of the priest beganTo slant aside; and then once moreHe led us through the fragrant door.And now along the passage wallsWere painted hideous animals,With hooded eyes and cloven stings:In the incense that like shadowy hairStreamed over them they seemed to stirTheir craggy claws and crooked wings.At last we saw strange moon-wreaths curlAround a deep, soft porch of pearl.O, what enchanter wove in dreamsThat chapel wild with shadowy gleamsAnd prismy colours of the moon?Shrined like a rainbow in a mistOf flowers, the fretted amethystArches rose to a mystic tune;And never mortal art inlaidThose cloudy floors of sea-soft jade.There, in the midst, an idol roseWhite as the silent starlit snowsOn lonely Himalayan heights:Over its head the spikenard spilledDown to its feet, with myrrh distilledIn distant, odorous Indian nights:It held before its ivory faceA flaming yellow chrysoprase.O, silkily murmured Creeping Sin,"This is the stone you wished to win."But in his ear the tall thin manWhispered with slow, strange lips—we knewNot what, but Creeping Sin went blueWith fear; again his eyes beganTo slant aside; then through the porchHe passed, and lit a tall, brown torch.Down a corridor dark as death,With beating hearts and bated breathWe hurried; far away we heardA dreadful hissing, fierce as fireWhen rain begins to quench a pyre;And where the smoky torch-light flaredStrange vermin beat their bat-like wings,And the wet walls dropped with slimy things.And darker, darker, wound the way,Beyond all gleams of night and day,And still that hideous hissing grewLouder and louder on our ears,And tortured us with eyeless fears;Then suddenly the gloom turned blue,And, in the wall, a rough rock caveGaped, like a phosphorescent grave.And from the purple mist withinThere came a wild tumultuous dinOf snakes that reared their heads and hissedAs if a witch's cauldron boiled;All round the door great serpents coiled,With eyes of glowing amethyst,Whose fierce blue flames began to slideLike shooting stars from side to side.Ah! with a sickly gasping grinAnd quivering eyelids, Creeping SinStole to the cave; but, suddenly,As through its glimmering mouth he passed,The serpents flashed and gripped him fast:He wriggled and gave one awful cry,Then all at once the cave was cleared;The snakes with their victim had disappeared.And fearlessly the tall thin manOpened his turquoise-tinted fanAnd entered; and the mists grew bright,And we saw that the cave was a diamond hallLit with lamps for a festival.A myriad globes of coloured lightWent gliding deep in its massy sides,Like the shimmering moons in the glassy tidesWhere a sea-king's palace enchants the night.Gliding and flowing, a glory and wonder,Through each other, and over, and under,The lucent orbs of green and gold,Bright with sorrow or soft with sleep,In music through the glimmering deep,Over their secret axles rolled,And circled by the murmuring spheresWe saw in a frame of frozen tearsA mirror that made the blood run cold.For, when we came to it, we foundIt imaged everything aroundExcept the face that gazed in it;And where the mirrored face should beA heart-shaped Ruby fierilySmouldered; and round the frame was writ,Mystery: Time and Tide shall pass,I am the Wisdom Looking-Glass.This is the Ruby none can touch:Many have loved it overmuch;Its fathomless fires flutter and sigh,Being as images of the flameThat shall make earth and heaven the sameWhen the fire of the end reddens the sky,And the world consumes like a burning pall,Till where there is nothing, there is all.So we looked up at the tall thin manAnd we saw that his face grew sad and wan:Tears were glistening in his eyes:At last, with a breaking sob, he bentHis head upon his breast and wentSwiftly away! With dreadful criesWe rushed to the softly glimmering doorAnd stared at the hideous corridor.But his robe was gone as a dream that flies:Back to the glass in terror we came,And stared at the writing round the frame.We could not understand one word:And suddenly we thought we heardThe hissing of the snakes again:How could we front them all alone?O, madly we clutched at the mirrored stoneAnd wished we were back on the flowery plain:And swifter than thought and swift as fearThe whole world flashed, and behold we were there.Yes; there was the port of Old Japan,With its twisted patterns, white and wan,Shining like a mottled fanSpread by the blue sea, faint and far;And far away we heard once moreA sound of singing on the shore,Where boys in blue kimonos boreRoses in a golden jar:And we heard, where the cherry orchards blow,The serpent-charmers fluting low,And the song of the maidens of Miyako.And at our feet unbroken layThe glass that had whirled us thither away:And in the grass, among the flowersWe sat and wished all sorts of things:O, we were wealthier than kings!We ruled the world for several hours!And then, it seemed, we knew not why,All the daisies began to die.We wished them alive again; but soonThe trees all fled up towards the moonLike peacocks through the sunlit air:And the butterflies flapped into silver fish;And each wish spoiled another wish;Till we threw the glass down in despair;For, getting whatever you want to get,Is like drinking tea from a fishing net.At last we thought we'd wish once moreThat all should be as it was before;And then we'd shatter the glass, if we could;But just as the world grew right again,We heard a wanderer out on the plainSinging what none of us understood;Yet we thought that the world grew thrice more sweetAnd the meadows were blossoming under his feet.And we felt a grand and beautiful fear,For we knew that a marvellous thought drew near;So we kept the glass for a little while:And the skies grew deeper and twice as bright,And the seas grew soft as a flower of light,And the meadows rippled from stile to stile;And memories danced in a musical throngThro' the blossom that scented the wonderful song.
The white moon dawned; the sunset died;And stars were trembling when we spiedThe rose-red temple of our dreams:Its lamp-lit gardens glimmered coolWith many an onyx-paven pool,Amid soft sounds of flowing streams;Where star-shine shimmered through the whiteTall fountain-shafts of crystal lightIn ever changing rainbow-gleams.
Priests in flowing yellow robesGlided under rosy globesThrough the green pomegranate boughsMoonbeams poured their coloured rain;Roofs of sea-green porcelainJutted o'er the rose-red house;Bells were hung beneath its eaves;Every wind that stirred the leavesTinkled as tired water does.
The temple had a low broad baseOf black bright marble; all its faceWas marble bright in rosy bloom;And where two sea-green pillars roseDeep in the flower-soft eave-shadowsWe saw, thro' richly sparkling gloom,Wrought in marvellous years of oldWith bulls and peacocks bossed in gold,The doors of powdered lacquer loom.
Quietly then the tall thin man,Holding his turquoise-tinted fan,Alighted from the palanquin;We followed: never painter dreamedOf how that dark rich temple gleamedWith gules of jewelled gloom within;And as we wondered near the doorA priest came o'er the polished floorIn sandals of soft serpent-skin;His mitre shimmered bright and blueWith pigeon's breast-plumes. When he knewOur quest he stroked his broad white chin,And looked at us with slanting eyesAnd smiled; then through his deep disguiseWe knew him! It was Creeping Sin!
But cunningly he bowed his headDown on his gilded breast and saidCome: and he led us through the duskOf passages whose painted wallsGleamed with dark old festivals;Till where the gloom grew sweet with muskAnd incense, through a door of amberWe came into a high-arched chamber.
There on a throne of jasper satA monstrous idol, black and fat;Thick rose-oil dropped upon its head:Drop by drop, heavy and sweet,Trickled down to its ebon feetWhereon the blood of goats was shed,And smeared around its perfumed kneesIn savage midnight mysteries.
It wore about its bulging waistA belt of dark green bronze enchasedWith big, soft, cloudy pearls; its wristsWere clasped about with moony gemsGathered from dead kings' diadems;Its throat was ringed with amethysts,And in its awful hand it heldA softly smouldering emerald.
Silkily murmured Creeping Sin,"This is the stone you wished to win!""White Snake," replied the tall thin man,"Show us the Ruby Stone, or IWill slay thee with my hands." The slyLong eyelids of the priest beganTo slant aside; and then once moreHe led us through the fragrant door.
And now along the passage wallsWere painted hideous animals,With hooded eyes and cloven stings:In the incense that like shadowy hairStreamed over them they seemed to stirTheir craggy claws and crooked wings.At last we saw strange moon-wreaths curlAround a deep, soft porch of pearl.
O, what enchanter wove in dreamsThat chapel wild with shadowy gleamsAnd prismy colours of the moon?Shrined like a rainbow in a mistOf flowers, the fretted amethystArches rose to a mystic tune;And never mortal art inlaidThose cloudy floors of sea-soft jade.
There, in the midst, an idol roseWhite as the silent starlit snowsOn lonely Himalayan heights:Over its head the spikenard spilledDown to its feet, with myrrh distilledIn distant, odorous Indian nights:It held before its ivory faceA flaming yellow chrysoprase.
O, silkily murmured Creeping Sin,"This is the stone you wished to win."But in his ear the tall thin manWhispered with slow, strange lips—we knewNot what, but Creeping Sin went blueWith fear; again his eyes beganTo slant aside; then through the porchHe passed, and lit a tall, brown torch.
Down a corridor dark as death,With beating hearts and bated breathWe hurried; far away we heardA dreadful hissing, fierce as fireWhen rain begins to quench a pyre;And where the smoky torch-light flaredStrange vermin beat their bat-like wings,And the wet walls dropped with slimy things.
And darker, darker, wound the way,Beyond all gleams of night and day,And still that hideous hissing grewLouder and louder on our ears,And tortured us with eyeless fears;Then suddenly the gloom turned blue,And, in the wall, a rough rock caveGaped, like a phosphorescent grave.
And from the purple mist withinThere came a wild tumultuous dinOf snakes that reared their heads and hissedAs if a witch's cauldron boiled;All round the door great serpents coiled,With eyes of glowing amethyst,Whose fierce blue flames began to slideLike shooting stars from side to side.
Ah! with a sickly gasping grinAnd quivering eyelids, Creeping SinStole to the cave; but, suddenly,As through its glimmering mouth he passed,The serpents flashed and gripped him fast:He wriggled and gave one awful cry,Then all at once the cave was cleared;The snakes with their victim had disappeared.
And fearlessly the tall thin manOpened his turquoise-tinted fanAnd entered; and the mists grew bright,And we saw that the cave was a diamond hallLit with lamps for a festival.A myriad globes of coloured lightWent gliding deep in its massy sides,Like the shimmering moons in the glassy tidesWhere a sea-king's palace enchants the night.
Gliding and flowing, a glory and wonder,Through each other, and over, and under,The lucent orbs of green and gold,Bright with sorrow or soft with sleep,In music through the glimmering deep,Over their secret axles rolled,And circled by the murmuring spheresWe saw in a frame of frozen tearsA mirror that made the blood run cold.
For, when we came to it, we foundIt imaged everything aroundExcept the face that gazed in it;And where the mirrored face should beA heart-shaped Ruby fierilySmouldered; and round the frame was writ,Mystery: Time and Tide shall pass,I am the Wisdom Looking-Glass.
This is the Ruby none can touch:Many have loved it overmuch;Its fathomless fires flutter and sigh,Being as images of the flameThat shall make earth and heaven the sameWhen the fire of the end reddens the sky,And the world consumes like a burning pall,Till where there is nothing, there is all.
So we looked up at the tall thin manAnd we saw that his face grew sad and wan:Tears were glistening in his eyes:At last, with a breaking sob, he bentHis head upon his breast and wentSwiftly away! With dreadful criesWe rushed to the softly glimmering doorAnd stared at the hideous corridor.But his robe was gone as a dream that flies:Back to the glass in terror we came,And stared at the writing round the frame.
We could not understand one word:And suddenly we thought we heardThe hissing of the snakes again:How could we front them all alone?O, madly we clutched at the mirrored stoneAnd wished we were back on the flowery plain:And swifter than thought and swift as fearThe whole world flashed, and behold we were there.
Yes; there was the port of Old Japan,With its twisted patterns, white and wan,Shining like a mottled fanSpread by the blue sea, faint and far;And far away we heard once moreA sound of singing on the shore,Where boys in blue kimonos boreRoses in a golden jar:And we heard, where the cherry orchards blow,The serpent-charmers fluting low,And the song of the maidens of Miyako.
And at our feet unbroken layThe glass that had whirled us thither away:And in the grass, among the flowersWe sat and wished all sorts of things:O, we were wealthier than kings!We ruled the world for several hours!And then, it seemed, we knew not why,All the daisies began to die.
We wished them alive again; but soonThe trees all fled up towards the moonLike peacocks through the sunlit air:And the butterflies flapped into silver fish;And each wish spoiled another wish;Till we threw the glass down in despair;For, getting whatever you want to get,Is like drinking tea from a fishing net.
At last we thought we'd wish once moreThat all should be as it was before;And then we'd shatter the glass, if we could;But just as the world grew right again,We heard a wanderer out on the plainSinging what none of us understood;Yet we thought that the world grew thrice more sweetAnd the meadows were blossoming under his feet.
And we felt a grand and beautiful fear,For we knew that a marvellous thought drew near;So we kept the glass for a little while:And the skies grew deeper and twice as bright,And the seas grew soft as a flower of light,And the meadows rippled from stile to stile;And memories danced in a musical throngThro' the blossom that scented the wonderful song.
We sailed across the silver seasAnd saw the sea-blue bowers,We saw the purple cherry trees,And all the foreign flowers,We travelled in a palanquinBeyond the caravan,And yet our hearts had never seenThe Flower of Old Japan.The Flower above all other flowers,The Flower that never dies;Before whose throne the scented hoursOffer their sacrifice;The Flower that here on earth belowReveals the heavenly plan;But only little children knowThe Flower of Old Japan.There, in the dim blue flowery plainWe wished with the magic glass againTo go to the Flower of the song's desire:And o'er us the whole of the soft blue skyFlashed like fire as the world went by,And far beneath us the sea like fireFlashed in one swift blue brilliant stream,And the journey was done, like a change in a dream.
We sailed across the silver seasAnd saw the sea-blue bowers,We saw the purple cherry trees,And all the foreign flowers,We travelled in a palanquinBeyond the caravan,And yet our hearts had never seenThe Flower of Old Japan.
The Flower above all other flowers,The Flower that never dies;Before whose throne the scented hoursOffer their sacrifice;The Flower that here on earth belowReveals the heavenly plan;But only little children knowThe Flower of Old Japan.
There, in the dim blue flowery plainWe wished with the magic glass againTo go to the Flower of the song's desire:And o'er us the whole of the soft blue skyFlashed like fire as the world went by,And far beneath us the sea like fireFlashed in one swift blue brilliant stream,And the journey was done, like a change in a dream.
Like the dawn upon a dreamSlowly through the scented gloomCrept once more the ruddy gleamO'er the friendly nursery room.There, before our waking eyes,Large and ghostly, white and dim,Dreamed the Flower that never dies,Opening wide its rosy rim.Spreading like a ghostly fan,Petals white as porcelain,There the Flower of Old JapanTold us we were home again;For a soft and curious lightSuddenly was o'er it shed.And we saw it was a whiteEnglish daisy, ringed with red.Slowly, as a wavering mistWaned the wonder out of sight,To a sigh of amethyst,To a wraith of scented light.Flower and magic glass had gone;Near the clutching fire we satDreaming, dreaming, all alone,Each upon a furry mat.While the firelight, red and clear,Fluttered in the black wet pane,It was very good to hearHowling winds and trotting rain.For we found at last we knewMore than all our fancy planned,All the fairy tales were true,And home the heart of fairyland.
Like the dawn upon a dreamSlowly through the scented gloomCrept once more the ruddy gleamO'er the friendly nursery room.There, before our waking eyes,Large and ghostly, white and dim,Dreamed the Flower that never dies,Opening wide its rosy rim.
Spreading like a ghostly fan,Petals white as porcelain,There the Flower of Old JapanTold us we were home again;For a soft and curious lightSuddenly was o'er it shed.And we saw it was a whiteEnglish daisy, ringed with red.
Slowly, as a wavering mistWaned the wonder out of sight,To a sigh of amethyst,To a wraith of scented light.Flower and magic glass had gone;Near the clutching fire we satDreaming, dreaming, all alone,Each upon a furry mat.
While the firelight, red and clear,Fluttered in the black wet pane,It was very good to hearHowling winds and trotting rain.For we found at last we knewMore than all our fancy planned,All the fairy tales were true,And home the heart of fairyland.
Carol, every violet hasHeaven for a looking-glass!Every little valley liesUnder many-clouded skies;Every little cottage standsGirt about with boundless lands.Every little glimmering pondClaims the mighty shores beyond—Shores no seamen ever hailed,Seas no ship has ever sailed.All the shores when day is doneFade into the setting sun,So the story tries to teachMore than can be told in speech.Beauty is a fading flower,Truth is but a wizard's tower,Where a solemn death-bell tolls,And a forest round it rolls.We have come by curious waysTo the Light that holds the days;We have sought in haunts of fearFor that all-enfolding sphere:And lo! it was not far, but near.We have found, O foolish-fond,The shore that has no shore beyond.Deep in every heart it liesWith its untranscended skies;For what heaven should bend aboveHearts that own the heaven of love?Carol, Carol, we have comeBack to heaven, back to home.
Carol, every violet hasHeaven for a looking-glass!
Every little valley liesUnder many-clouded skies;Every little cottage standsGirt about with boundless lands.Every little glimmering pondClaims the mighty shores beyond—Shores no seamen ever hailed,Seas no ship has ever sailed.
All the shores when day is doneFade into the setting sun,So the story tries to teachMore than can be told in speech.
Beauty is a fading flower,Truth is but a wizard's tower,Where a solemn death-bell tolls,And a forest round it rolls.
We have come by curious waysTo the Light that holds the days;We have sought in haunts of fearFor that all-enfolding sphere:And lo! it was not far, but near.
We have found, O foolish-fond,The shore that has no shore beyond.
Deep in every heart it liesWith its untranscended skies;For what heaven should bend aboveHearts that own the heaven of love?
Carol, Carol, we have comeBack to heaven, back to home.
Apes and ivory, skulls and roses, in junks of old Hong-Kong,Gliding over a sea of dreams to a haunted shore of song,Masts of gold and sails of satin, shimmering out of the East,O, Love has little need of you now to make his heart a feast.Or is it an elephant, white as milk and bearing a severed headThat tatters his broad soft wrinkled flank in tawdry patches of red,With a negro giant to walk beside and a temple dome above,Where ruby and emerald shatter the sun,—is it these that should please my love?Or is it a palace of pomegranates, where ivory-limbed young slavesLure a luxury out of the noon in the swooning fountain's waves;Or couch like cats and sun themselves on the warm white marble brink?O, Love has little to ask of these, this day in May, I think.Is it Lebanon cedars or purple fruits of the honeyed southron air,Spikenard, saffron, roses of Sharon, cinnamon, calamus, myrrh,A bed of spices, a fountain of waters, or the wild white wings of a dove,Now, when the winter is over and gone, is it these that should please my love?The leaves outburst on the hazel-bough and the hawthorn's heaped wi' flower,And God has bidden the crisp clouds build my love a lordlier tower,Taller than Lebanon, whiter than snow, in the fresh blue skies above;And the wild rose wakes in the winding lanes of the radiant land I love.Apes and ivory, skulls and roses, in junks of old Hong-Kong,Gliding over a sea of dreams to a haunted shore of song,Masts of gold and sails of satin, shimmering out of the East,O, Love has little need of you now to make his heart a feast.
Apes and ivory, skulls and roses, in junks of old Hong-Kong,Gliding over a sea of dreams to a haunted shore of song,Masts of gold and sails of satin, shimmering out of the East,O, Love has little need of you now to make his heart a feast.
Or is it an elephant, white as milk and bearing a severed headThat tatters his broad soft wrinkled flank in tawdry patches of red,With a negro giant to walk beside and a temple dome above,Where ruby and emerald shatter the sun,—is it these that should please my love?
Or is it a palace of pomegranates, where ivory-limbed young slavesLure a luxury out of the noon in the swooning fountain's waves;Or couch like cats and sun themselves on the warm white marble brink?O, Love has little to ask of these, this day in May, I think.
Is it Lebanon cedars or purple fruits of the honeyed southron air,Spikenard, saffron, roses of Sharon, cinnamon, calamus, myrrh,A bed of spices, a fountain of waters, or the wild white wings of a dove,Now, when the winter is over and gone, is it these that should please my love?
The leaves outburst on the hazel-bough and the hawthorn's heaped wi' flower,And God has bidden the crisp clouds build my love a lordlier tower,Taller than Lebanon, whiter than snow, in the fresh blue skies above;And the wild rose wakes in the winding lanes of the radiant land I love.
Apes and ivory, skulls and roses, in junks of old Hong-Kong,Gliding over a sea of dreams to a haunted shore of song,Masts of gold and sails of satin, shimmering out of the East,O, Love has little need of you now to make his heart a feast.
Sherwood in the twilight, is Robin Hood awake?Grey and ghostly shadows are gliding through the brake,Shadows of the dappled deer, dreaming of the morn,Dreaming of a shadowy man that winds a shadowy horn.Robin Hood is here again: all his merry thievesHear a ghostly bugle-note shivering through the leaves,Calling as he used to call, faint and far away,In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.Merry, merry England has kissed the lips of June:All the wings of fairyland were here beneath the moon,Like a flight of rose-leaves fluttering in a mistOf opal and ruby and pearl and amethyst.Merry, merry England is waking as of old,With eyes of blither hazel and hair of brighter gold:For Robin Hood is here again beneath the bursting sprayIn Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.Love is in the greenwood building him a houseOf wild rose and hawthorn and honeysuckle boughs:Love is in the greenwood, dawn is in the skies,And Marian is waiting with a glory in her eyes.Hark! The dazzled laverock climbs the golden steep!Marian is waiting: is Robin Hood asleep?Round the fairy grass-rings frolic elf and fay,In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.Oberon, Oberon, rake away the gold,Rake away the red leaves, roll away the mould,Rake away the gold leaves, roll away the red,And wake Will Scarlett from his leafy forest bed.Friar Tuck and Little John are riding down togetherWith quarter-staff and drinking-can and grey goose-feather.The dead are coming back again, the years are rolled awayIn Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.Softly over Sherwood the south wind blows.All the heart of England hid in every roseHears across the greenwood the sunny whisper leap,Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?Hark, the voice of England wakes him as of oldAnd, shattering the silence with a cry of brighter goldBugles in the greenwood echo from the steep,Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?Where the deer are gliding down the shadowy glenAll across the glades of fern he calls his merry men—Doublets of the Lincoln green glancing through the MayIn Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day—Calls them and they answer: from aisles of oak and ashRings theFollow! Follow!and the boughs begin to crash,The ferns begin to flutter and the flowers begin to fly,And through the crimson dawning the robber band goes by.Robin! Robin! Robin!All his merry thievesAnswer as the bugle-note shivers through the leaves,Calling as he used to call, faint and far away,In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.
Sherwood in the twilight, is Robin Hood awake?Grey and ghostly shadows are gliding through the brake,Shadows of the dappled deer, dreaming of the morn,Dreaming of a shadowy man that winds a shadowy horn.
Robin Hood is here again: all his merry thievesHear a ghostly bugle-note shivering through the leaves,Calling as he used to call, faint and far away,In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.
Merry, merry England has kissed the lips of June:All the wings of fairyland were here beneath the moon,Like a flight of rose-leaves fluttering in a mistOf opal and ruby and pearl and amethyst.
Merry, merry England is waking as of old,With eyes of blither hazel and hair of brighter gold:For Robin Hood is here again beneath the bursting sprayIn Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.
Love is in the greenwood building him a houseOf wild rose and hawthorn and honeysuckle boughs:Love is in the greenwood, dawn is in the skies,And Marian is waiting with a glory in her eyes.
Hark! The dazzled laverock climbs the golden steep!Marian is waiting: is Robin Hood asleep?Round the fairy grass-rings frolic elf and fay,In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.
Oberon, Oberon, rake away the gold,Rake away the red leaves, roll away the mould,Rake away the gold leaves, roll away the red,And wake Will Scarlett from his leafy forest bed.
Friar Tuck and Little John are riding down togetherWith quarter-staff and drinking-can and grey goose-feather.The dead are coming back again, the years are rolled awayIn Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.
Softly over Sherwood the south wind blows.All the heart of England hid in every roseHears across the greenwood the sunny whisper leap,Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?
Hark, the voice of England wakes him as of oldAnd, shattering the silence with a cry of brighter goldBugles in the greenwood echo from the steep,Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?
Where the deer are gliding down the shadowy glenAll across the glades of fern he calls his merry men—Doublets of the Lincoln green glancing through the MayIn Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day—
Calls them and they answer: from aisles of oak and ashRings theFollow! Follow!and the boughs begin to crash,The ferns begin to flutter and the flowers begin to fly,And through the crimson dawning the robber band goes by.
Robin! Robin! Robin!All his merry thievesAnswer as the bugle-note shivers through the leaves,Calling as he used to call, faint and far away,In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.
IWhither away is the Spring to-day?To England, to England!In France they heard the South wind say,"She's off on a quest for a Queen o' the May,So she's over the hills far away,To England!"And why did she fly with her golden feetTo England, to England?In Italy, too, they heard the sweetRoses whisper and flutter and beat—"She's an old and a true, true love to greetIn England!"A moon ago there came a cryFrom England, from England,Faintly, fondly it faltered nighThe throne of the Spring in the Southern sky,And it whispered "Come," and the world went by,And with one long loving blissful sighThe Spring was away to England!IIWhen Spring comes back to EnglandAnd crowns her brows with May,Round the merry moonlit worldShe goes the greenwood way:She throws a rose to Italy,A fleur-de-lys to France;But round her regal morris-ringThe seas of England dance.When Spring comes back to EnglandAnd dons her robe of green,There's many a nation garlandedBut England is the Queen;She's Queen, she's Queen of all the worldBeneath the laughing sky,For the nations go a-MayingWhen they hear the New Year cry—"Come over the water to England,My old love, my new love,Come over the water to England,In showers of flowery rain;Come over the water to England,April, my true love;And tell the heart of EnglandThe Spring is here again!"IIISo it's here, she is here with her eyes of blueIn England, In England!She has brought us the rainbows with her, too,And a glory of shimmering glimmering dewAnd a heaven of quivering scent and hueAnd a lily for me and a rose for youIn England.There's many a wanderer far awayFrom England, from England,Will toss upon his couch and say—Though Spain is proud and France is gay,And there's many a foot on the primrose way,The world has never a Queen o' the MayBut England.IVWhen Drake went out to seek for goldAcross the uncharted sea,And saw the Western skies unfoldTheir veils of mystery;To lure him through the fevered hoursAs nigh to death he lay,There floated o'er the foreign flowersA breath of English May:And back to Devon shores againHis dreaming spirit flewOver the splendid Spanish MainTo haunts his childhood knew,Whispering "God forgive the blindDesire that bade me roam,I've sailed around the world to findThe sweetest way to home."VAnd it's whither away is the Spring to-day?To England, to England!In France you'll hear the South wind say,"She off on a quest for a Queen o' the May,So she's over the hills and far away,To England!"She's flown with the swallows across the seaTo England, to England!For there's many a land of the brave and freeBut never a home o' the hawthorn-tree,And never a Queen o' the May for meBut England!And round the fairy revels whirlIn England, in England!And the buds outbreak and the leaves unfurl,And where the crisp white cloudlets curlThe Dawn comes up like a primrose girlWith a crowd of flowers in a basket of pearlFor England!
I
Whither away is the Spring to-day?To England, to England!In France they heard the South wind say,"She's off on a quest for a Queen o' the May,So she's over the hills far away,To England!"
And why did she fly with her golden feetTo England, to England?In Italy, too, they heard the sweetRoses whisper and flutter and beat—"She's an old and a true, true love to greetIn England!"
A moon ago there came a cryFrom England, from England,Faintly, fondly it faltered nighThe throne of the Spring in the Southern sky,And it whispered "Come," and the world went by,And with one long loving blissful sighThe Spring was away to England!
II
When Spring comes back to EnglandAnd crowns her brows with May,Round the merry moonlit worldShe goes the greenwood way:She throws a rose to Italy,A fleur-de-lys to France;But round her regal morris-ringThe seas of England dance.
When Spring comes back to EnglandAnd dons her robe of green,There's many a nation garlandedBut England is the Queen;She's Queen, she's Queen of all the worldBeneath the laughing sky,For the nations go a-MayingWhen they hear the New Year cry—
"Come over the water to England,My old love, my new love,Come over the water to England,In showers of flowery rain;Come over the water to England,April, my true love;And tell the heart of EnglandThe Spring is here again!"
III
So it's here, she is here with her eyes of blueIn England, In England!She has brought us the rainbows with her, too,And a glory of shimmering glimmering dewAnd a heaven of quivering scent and hueAnd a lily for me and a rose for youIn England.
There's many a wanderer far awayFrom England, from England,Will toss upon his couch and say—Though Spain is proud and France is gay,And there's many a foot on the primrose way,The world has never a Queen o' the MayBut England.
IV
When Drake went out to seek for goldAcross the uncharted sea,And saw the Western skies unfoldTheir veils of mystery;To lure him through the fevered hoursAs nigh to death he lay,There floated o'er the foreign flowersA breath of English May:
And back to Devon shores againHis dreaming spirit flewOver the splendid Spanish MainTo haunts his childhood knew,Whispering "God forgive the blindDesire that bade me roam,I've sailed around the world to findThe sweetest way to home."
V
And it's whither away is the Spring to-day?To England, to England!In France you'll hear the South wind say,"She off on a quest for a Queen o' the May,So she's over the hills and far away,To England!"
She's flown with the swallows across the seaTo England, to England!For there's many a land of the brave and freeBut never a home o' the hawthorn-tree,And never a Queen o' the May for meBut England!
And round the fairy revels whirlIn England, in England!And the buds outbreak and the leaves unfurl,And where the crisp white cloudlets curlThe Dawn comes up like a primrose girlWith a crowd of flowers in a basket of pearlFor England!
Come to me, you with the laughing face, in the night as I lieDreaming of days that are dead and of joys gone by;Come to me, comrade, come through the slow-dropping rain,Come from your grave in the darkness and let us be pirates again.Let us be boys together to-night, and pretend as of oldWe are pirates at rest in a cave among huge heaps of gold,Red Spanish doubloons and great pieces of eight, and muskets and swords,And a smoky red camp-fire to glint, you know how, on our ill-gotten hoards.The old cave in the fir-wood that slopes down the hills to the seaStill is haunted, perhaps, by young pirates as wicked as we:Though the fir with the magpie's big mud-plastered nest used to hide it so well,And the boys in the gang had to swear that they never would tell.Ah, that tree; I have sat in its boughs and looked seaward for hours.I remember the creak of its branches, the scent of the flowersThat climbed round the mouth of the cave. It is odd I recallThose little things best, that I scarcely took heed of at all.I remember how brightly the brass on the butt of my spy-glass gleamedAs I climbed through the purple heather and thyme to our eyrie and dreamed;I remember the smooth glossy sun-burn that darkened our faces and handsAs we gazed at the merchantmen sailing away to those wonderful lands.I remember the long, slow sigh of the sea as we raced in the sun,To dry ourselves after our swimming; and how we would runWith a cry and a crash through the foam as it creamed on the shore,Then back to bask in the warm dry gold of the sand once more.Come to me, you with the laughing face, in the gloom as I lieDreaming of days that are dead and of joys gone by;Let us be boys together to-night and pretend as of oldWe are pirates at rest in a cave among great heaps of gold.Come; you shall be chief. We'll not quarrel, the time flies so fast.There are ships to be grappled, there's blood to be shed, ere our playtime be past.No; perhaps wewillquarrel, just once, or it scarcely will seemSo like the old days that have flown from us both like a dream.Still; you shall be chief in the end; and then we'll go homeTo the hearth and the tea and the books that we loved: ah, but come,Come to me, come through the night and the slow-dropping rain;Come, old friend, come thro' the darkness and let us be playmates again.
Come to me, you with the laughing face, in the night as I lieDreaming of days that are dead and of joys gone by;Come to me, comrade, come through the slow-dropping rain,Come from your grave in the darkness and let us be pirates again.
Let us be boys together to-night, and pretend as of oldWe are pirates at rest in a cave among huge heaps of gold,Red Spanish doubloons and great pieces of eight, and muskets and swords,And a smoky red camp-fire to glint, you know how, on our ill-gotten hoards.
The old cave in the fir-wood that slopes down the hills to the seaStill is haunted, perhaps, by young pirates as wicked as we:Though the fir with the magpie's big mud-plastered nest used to hide it so well,And the boys in the gang had to swear that they never would tell.
Ah, that tree; I have sat in its boughs and looked seaward for hours.I remember the creak of its branches, the scent of the flowersThat climbed round the mouth of the cave. It is odd I recallThose little things best, that I scarcely took heed of at all.
I remember how brightly the brass on the butt of my spy-glass gleamedAs I climbed through the purple heather and thyme to our eyrie and dreamed;I remember the smooth glossy sun-burn that darkened our faces and handsAs we gazed at the merchantmen sailing away to those wonderful lands.
I remember the long, slow sigh of the sea as we raced in the sun,To dry ourselves after our swimming; and how we would runWith a cry and a crash through the foam as it creamed on the shore,Then back to bask in the warm dry gold of the sand once more.
Come to me, you with the laughing face, in the gloom as I lieDreaming of days that are dead and of joys gone by;Let us be boys together to-night and pretend as of oldWe are pirates at rest in a cave among great heaps of gold.
Come; you shall be chief. We'll not quarrel, the time flies so fast.There are ships to be grappled, there's blood to be shed, ere our playtime be past.No; perhaps wewillquarrel, just once, or it scarcely will seemSo like the old days that have flown from us both like a dream.
Still; you shall be chief in the end; and then we'll go homeTo the hearth and the tea and the books that we loved: ah, but come,Come to me, come through the night and the slow-dropping rain;Come, old friend, come thro' the darkness and let us be playmates again.
There is a song of England that none shall ever sing;So sweet it is and fleet it isThat none whose words are not as fleet as birds upon the wing,And regal as her mountains,And radiant as the fountainsOf rainbow-coloured sea-spray that every wave can flingAgainst the cliffs of England, the sturdy cliffs of England,Could more than seem to dream of it,Or catch one flying gleam of it,Above the seas of England that never cease to sing.There is a song of England that only lovers know;So rare it is and fair it is,O, like a fairy rose it is upon a drift of snow,So cold and sweet and sunny,So full of hidden honey,So like a flight of butterflies where rose and lily blowAlong the lanes of England, the leafy lanes of England;When flowers are at their vespersAnd full of little whispers,The boys and girls of England shall sing it as they go.There is a song of England that only love may sing,So sure it is and pure it is;And seaward with the sea-mew it spreads a whiter wing,And with the sky-lark hoversAbove the tryst of lovers,Above the kiss and whisper that led the lovely SpringThrough all the glades of England, the ferny glades of England,Until the way enwound herWith sprays of May, and crowned herWith stars of frosty blossom in a merry morris-ring.There is a song of England that haunts her hours of rest:The calm of it and balm of itAre breathed from every hedgerow that blushes to the WestFrom the cottage doors that nightlyCast their welcome out so brightlyOn the lanes where laughing children are lifted and caressedBy the tenderest hands in England, hard and blistered hands of England:And from the restful sighingOf the sleepers that are lyingWith the arms of God around them on the night's contented breast.There is a song of England that wanders on the wind;So sad it is and glad it isThat men who hear it madden and their eyes are wet and blind,For the lowlands and the highlandsOf the unforgotten islands,For the Islands of the Blesséd and the rest they cannot findAs they grope in dreams to England and the love they left in England;Little feet that danced to meet themAnd the lips that used to greet them,And the watcher at the window in the home they left behind.There is a song of England that thrills the beating bloodWith burning cries and yearningTides of hidden aspiration hardly known or understood;Aspirations of the creatureTow'rds the unity of Nature;Sudden chivalries revealing whence the longing is renewedIn the men that live for England, live and love and die for England:By the light of their desireThey shall blindly blunder higher,To a wider, grander Kingdom and a deeper, nobler Good.There is a song of England that only heaven can hear;So gloriously victorious,It soars above the choral stars that sing the Golden Year;Till even the cloudy shadowsThat wander o'er her meadowsIn silent purple harmonies declare His glory there,Along the hills of England, the billowy hills of England;While heaven rolls and rangesThrough all the myriad changesThat mirror God in music to the mortal eye and ear.There is a song of England that none shall ever sing;So sweet it is and fleet it isThat none whose words are not as fleet as birds upon the wing,And regal as her mountains,And radiant as her fountainsOf rainbow-coloured sea-spray that every wave can flingAgainst the cliffs of England, the sturdy cliffs of England,Could more than seem to dream of it,Or catch one flying gleam of it,Above the seas of England that never cease to sing.
There is a song of England that none shall ever sing;So sweet it is and fleet it isThat none whose words are not as fleet as birds upon the wing,And regal as her mountains,And radiant as the fountainsOf rainbow-coloured sea-spray that every wave can flingAgainst the cliffs of England, the sturdy cliffs of England,Could more than seem to dream of it,Or catch one flying gleam of it,Above the seas of England that never cease to sing.
There is a song of England that only lovers know;So rare it is and fair it is,O, like a fairy rose it is upon a drift of snow,So cold and sweet and sunny,So full of hidden honey,So like a flight of butterflies where rose and lily blowAlong the lanes of England, the leafy lanes of England;When flowers are at their vespersAnd full of little whispers,The boys and girls of England shall sing it as they go.
There is a song of England that only love may sing,So sure it is and pure it is;And seaward with the sea-mew it spreads a whiter wing,And with the sky-lark hoversAbove the tryst of lovers,Above the kiss and whisper that led the lovely SpringThrough all the glades of England, the ferny glades of England,Until the way enwound herWith sprays of May, and crowned herWith stars of frosty blossom in a merry morris-ring.
There is a song of England that haunts her hours of rest:The calm of it and balm of itAre breathed from every hedgerow that blushes to the WestFrom the cottage doors that nightlyCast their welcome out so brightlyOn the lanes where laughing children are lifted and caressedBy the tenderest hands in England, hard and blistered hands of England:And from the restful sighingOf the sleepers that are lyingWith the arms of God around them on the night's contented breast.
There is a song of England that wanders on the wind;So sad it is and glad it isThat men who hear it madden and their eyes are wet and blind,For the lowlands and the highlandsOf the unforgotten islands,For the Islands of the Blesséd and the rest they cannot findAs they grope in dreams to England and the love they left in England;Little feet that danced to meet themAnd the lips that used to greet them,And the watcher at the window in the home they left behind.
There is a song of England that thrills the beating bloodWith burning cries and yearningTides of hidden aspiration hardly known or understood;Aspirations of the creatureTow'rds the unity of Nature;Sudden chivalries revealing whence the longing is renewedIn the men that live for England, live and love and die for England:By the light of their desireThey shall blindly blunder higher,To a wider, grander Kingdom and a deeper, nobler Good.
There is a song of England that only heaven can hear;So gloriously victorious,It soars above the choral stars that sing the Golden Year;Till even the cloudy shadowsThat wander o'er her meadowsIn silent purple harmonies declare His glory there,Along the hills of England, the billowy hills of England;While heaven rolls and rangesThrough all the myriad changesThat mirror God in music to the mortal eye and ear.
There is a song of England that none shall ever sing;So sweet it is and fleet it isThat none whose words are not as fleet as birds upon the wing,And regal as her mountains,And radiant as her fountainsOf rainbow-coloured sea-spray that every wave can flingAgainst the cliffs of England, the sturdy cliffs of England,Could more than seem to dream of it,Or catch one flying gleam of it,Above the seas of England that never cease to sing.