IBright as a fallen fragment of the sky,Mid shell-encrusted rocks the sea-pool shone,Glassing the sunset-clouds in its clear heart,A small enchanted world enwalled apartIn diamond mystery,Content with its own dreams, its own strict zoneOf urchin woods, its fairy bights and bars,Its daisy-disked anemones and rose-feathered stars.IIForsaken for awhile by that deep roarWhich works in storm and calm the eternal will,Drags down the cliffs, bids the great hills go byAnd shepherds their multitudinous pageantry,—Here, on this ebb-tide shoreA jewelled bath of beauty, sparkling still,The little sea-pool smiled away the sea,And slept on its own plane of bright tranquillity.IIIA self-sufficing soul, a pool in trance,Un-stirred by all the spirit-winds that blowFrom o'er the gulfs of change, content, ere yetOn its own crags, which rough peaked limpets fretThe last rich colours glance,Content to mirror the sea-bird's wings of snow,Or feel in some small creek, ere sunset fails,A tiny Nautilus hoist its lovely purple sails;IVAnd, furrowing into pearl that rosy bar,Sail its own soul from fairy fringe to fringe,Lured by the twinkling prey 'twas born to reachIn its own pool, by many an elfin beachOf jewels, adventuring farThrough the last mirrored cloud and sunset-tingeAnd past the rainbow-dripping cave where liesThe dark green pirate-crab at watch with beaded eyes,VOr fringed Medusa floats like light in light,Medusa, with the loveliest of all faysPent in its irised bubble of jellied sheen,Trailing long ferns of moonlight, shot with greenAnd crimson rays and white,Waving ethereal tendrils, ghostly sprays,Daring the deep, dissolving in the sun,The vanishing point of life, the light whence life begun.VIPoised between me, light, time, eternity,So tinged with all, that in its delicate brainKindling it as a lamp with her bright wingsDay-long, night-long, young Ariel sits and singsEchoing the lucid sea,Listening it echo her own unearthly strain,Watching through lucid walls the world's rich tide,One light, one substance with her own, rise and subside.VIIAnd over soft brown woods, limpid, serene,Puffing its fans the Nautilus went its way,And from a hundred salt and weedy shelvesPeered little hornèd faces of sea-elves:The prawn darted, half-seen,Thro' watery sunlight, like a pale green ray,And all around, from soft green waving bowers,Creatures like fruit out-crept from fluted shells like flowers.VIIIAnd, over all, that glowing mirror spreadThe splendour of its heaven-reflecting gleams,A level wealth of tints, calm as the skyThat broods above our own mortality:The temporal seas had fled,And ah, what hopes, what fears, what mystic dreamsCould ruffle it now from any deeper deep?Content in its own bounds it slept a changeless sleep.IXSuddenly, from that heaven beyond belief,Suddenly, from that world beyond its ken,Dashing great billows o'er its rosy bars,Shivering its dreams into a thousand stars,Flooding each sun-dried reefWith waves of colour, (as once, for mortal menBethesda's angel) with blue eyes, wide and wild,Naked into the pool there stepped a little child.XHer red-gold hair against the far green seaBlew thickly out: her slender golden formShone dark against the richly waning WestAs with one hand she splashed her glistening breast,Then waded up to her kneeAnd frothed the whole pool into a fairy storm!...So, stooping through our skies, of old, there cameAngels that once could set this world's dark pool a-flame,XIFrom which the seas of faith have ebbed away,Leaving the lonely shore too bright, too bare,While mirrored softly in the smooth wet sandA deeper sunset sees its blooms expandBut all too phantom-fair,Between the dark brown rocks and sparkling sprayWhere the low ripples pleaded, shrank and sighed,And tossed a moment's rainbow heavenward ere they died.XIIStoop, starry souls, incline to this dark coast,Where all too long, too faithlessly, we dream.Stoop to the world's dark pool, its crags and scars,Its yellow sands, its rosy harbour-bars,And soft green wastes that gleamBut with some glorious drifting god-like ghostOf cloud, some vaguely passionate crimson stain:Rend the blue waves of heaven, shatter our sleep again!
I
Bright as a fallen fragment of the sky,Mid shell-encrusted rocks the sea-pool shone,Glassing the sunset-clouds in its clear heart,A small enchanted world enwalled apartIn diamond mystery,Content with its own dreams, its own strict zoneOf urchin woods, its fairy bights and bars,Its daisy-disked anemones and rose-feathered stars.
II
Forsaken for awhile by that deep roarWhich works in storm and calm the eternal will,Drags down the cliffs, bids the great hills go byAnd shepherds their multitudinous pageantry,—Here, on this ebb-tide shoreA jewelled bath of beauty, sparkling still,The little sea-pool smiled away the sea,And slept on its own plane of bright tranquillity.
III
A self-sufficing soul, a pool in trance,Un-stirred by all the spirit-winds that blowFrom o'er the gulfs of change, content, ere yetOn its own crags, which rough peaked limpets fretThe last rich colours glance,Content to mirror the sea-bird's wings of snow,Or feel in some small creek, ere sunset fails,A tiny Nautilus hoist its lovely purple sails;
IV
And, furrowing into pearl that rosy bar,Sail its own soul from fairy fringe to fringe,Lured by the twinkling prey 'twas born to reachIn its own pool, by many an elfin beachOf jewels, adventuring farThrough the last mirrored cloud and sunset-tingeAnd past the rainbow-dripping cave where liesThe dark green pirate-crab at watch with beaded eyes,
V
Or fringed Medusa floats like light in light,Medusa, with the loveliest of all faysPent in its irised bubble of jellied sheen,Trailing long ferns of moonlight, shot with greenAnd crimson rays and white,Waving ethereal tendrils, ghostly sprays,Daring the deep, dissolving in the sun,The vanishing point of life, the light whence life begun.
VI
Poised between me, light, time, eternity,So tinged with all, that in its delicate brainKindling it as a lamp with her bright wingsDay-long, night-long, young Ariel sits and singsEchoing the lucid sea,Listening it echo her own unearthly strain,Watching through lucid walls the world's rich tide,One light, one substance with her own, rise and subside.
VII
And over soft brown woods, limpid, serene,Puffing its fans the Nautilus went its way,And from a hundred salt and weedy shelvesPeered little hornèd faces of sea-elves:The prawn darted, half-seen,Thro' watery sunlight, like a pale green ray,And all around, from soft green waving bowers,Creatures like fruit out-crept from fluted shells like flowers.
VIII
And, over all, that glowing mirror spreadThe splendour of its heaven-reflecting gleams,A level wealth of tints, calm as the skyThat broods above our own mortality:The temporal seas had fled,And ah, what hopes, what fears, what mystic dreamsCould ruffle it now from any deeper deep?Content in its own bounds it slept a changeless sleep.
IX
Suddenly, from that heaven beyond belief,Suddenly, from that world beyond its ken,Dashing great billows o'er its rosy bars,Shivering its dreams into a thousand stars,Flooding each sun-dried reefWith waves of colour, (as once, for mortal menBethesda's angel) with blue eyes, wide and wild,Naked into the pool there stepped a little child.
X
Her red-gold hair against the far green seaBlew thickly out: her slender golden formShone dark against the richly waning WestAs with one hand she splashed her glistening breast,Then waded up to her kneeAnd frothed the whole pool into a fairy storm!...So, stooping through our skies, of old, there cameAngels that once could set this world's dark pool a-flame,
XI
From which the seas of faith have ebbed away,Leaving the lonely shore too bright, too bare,While mirrored softly in the smooth wet sandA deeper sunset sees its blooms expandBut all too phantom-fair,Between the dark brown rocks and sparkling sprayWhere the low ripples pleaded, shrank and sighed,And tossed a moment's rainbow heavenward ere they died.
XII
Stoop, starry souls, incline to this dark coast,Where all too long, too faithlessly, we dream.Stoop to the world's dark pool, its crags and scars,Its yellow sands, its rosy harbour-bars,And soft green wastes that gleamBut with some glorious drifting god-like ghostOf cloud, some vaguely passionate crimson stain:Rend the blue waves of heaven, shatter our sleep again!
IChorus—Ships have swept with my conquering nameOver the waves of war,Swept thro' the Spaniards' thunder and flameTo the splendour of Trafalgar:On the blistered decks of their great renown,In the wind of my storm-beat wings,Hawkins and Hawke went sailing downTo the harbour of deep-sea kings!By the storm-beat wings of the hawk, the hawk,Bent beak and pitiless breast,They clove their way thro' the red sea-fray:Who wakens me now to the quest?IIHushed are the whimpering winds on the hill,Dumb is the shrinking plain,And the songs that enchanted the woods are stillAs I shoot to the skies again!Does the blood grow black on my fierce bent beak,Does the down still cling to my claw?Who brightened these eyes for the prey they seek?Life, I follow thy law!For I am the hawk, the hawk, the hawk!Who knoweth my pitiless breast?Who watcheth me sway in the wild wind's way?Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest.IIIAs I glide and glide with my peering head,Or swerve at a puff of smoke,Who watcheth my wings on the wind outspread,Here—gone—with an instant stroke?Who toucheth the glory of life I feelAs I buffet this great glad gale,Spire and spire to the cloud-world, wheel,Loosen my wings and sail?For I am the hawk, the island hawk,Who knoweth my pitiless breast?Who watcheth me sway in the sun's bright way?Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest.IVHad they given me "Cloud-cuckoo-city" to guardBetween mankind and the sky,Tho' the dew might shine on an April sward,Iris had ne'er passed by!Swift as her beautiful wings might beFrom the rosy Olympian hill,Had Epops entrusted the gates to meEarth were his kingdom still.For I am the hawk, the archer, the hawk!Who knoweth my pitiless breast?Who watcheth me sway in the wild wind's way?Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest.VMy mate in the nest on the high bright treeBlazing with dawn and dew,She knoweth the gleam of the world and the gleeAs I drop like a bolt from the blue;She knoweth the fire of the level flightAs I skim, close, close to the ground,With the long grass lashing my breast and the brightDew-drops flashing around.She watcheth the hawk, the hawk, the hawk,(O, the red-blotched eggs in the nest!)Watcheth him sway in the sun's bright way;Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest.VIShe builded her nest on the high bright wold,She was taught in a world afar,The lore that is only an April oldYet old as the evening star;Life of a far off ancient dayIn an hour unhooded her eyes;In the time of the budding of one green sprayShe was wise as the stars are wise.Brown flower of the tree of the hawk, the hawk,On the old elm's burgeoning breast,She watcheth me sway in the wild wind's way;Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest.VIISpirit and sap of the sweet swift Spring,Fire of our island soul,Burn in her breast and pulse in her wingWhile the endless ages roll;Avatar—she—of the perilous prideThat plundered the golden West,Her glance is a sword, but it sweeps too wideFor a rumour to trouble her rest.She goeth her glorious way, the hawk,She nurseth her brood alone;She will not swoop for an owlet's whoop,She hath calls and cries of her own.VIIIThere was never a dale in our isle so deepThat her wide wings were not freeTo soar to the sovran heights and keepSight of the rolling sea:Is it there, is it here in the rolling skies,The realm of her future fame?Look once, look once in her glittering eyes,Ye shall find her the same, the same.Up to the sides with the hawk, the hawk,As it was in the days of old!Ye shall sail once more, ye shall soar, ye shall soarTo the new-found realms of gold.IXShe hath ridden on white Arabian steedsThro' the ringing English dells,For the joy of a great queen, hunting in state,To the music of golden bells;A queen's fair fingers have drawn the hoodAnd tossed her aloft in the blue,A white hand eager for needless blood;I hunt for the needs of two.Yet I am the hawk, the hawk, the hawk!Who knoweth my pitiless breast?Who watcheth me sway in the sun's bright way?Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest.XWho fashioned her wide and splendid eyesThat have stared in the eyes of kings?With a silken twist she was looped to their wrist:She has clawed at their jewelled rings!Who flung her first thro' the crimson dawnTo pluck him a prey from the skies,When the love-light shone upon lake and lawnIn the valleys of Paradise?Who fashioned the hawk, the hawk, the hawk,Bent beak and pitiless breast?Who watcheth him sway in the wild wind's way?Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest.XIIs there ever a song in all the worldShall say how the quest beganWith the beak and the wings that have made us kingsAnd cruel—almost—as man?The wild wind whimpers across the heathWhere the sad little tufts of blueAnd the red-stained grey little feathers of deathFlutter!Who fashioned us? Who?Who fashioned the scimitar wings of the hawk,Bent beak and arrowy breast?Who watcheth him sway in the sun's bright way?Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest.XIILinnet and woodpecker, red-cap and jay,Shriek that a doom shall fallOne day, one day, on my pitiless wayFrom the sky that is over us all;But the great blue hawk of the heavens aboveFashioned the world for his prey,—King and queen and hawk and dove,We shall meet in his clutch that day;Shall I not welcome him, I, the hawk?Yea, cry, as they shrink from his claw,Cry, as I die, to the unknown sky,Life, I follow thy law!XIIIChorus—Ships have swept with my conquering name ...Over the world and beyond,Hark! Bellerophon, Marlborough, Thunderer,Condor, respond!—On the blistered decks of their dread renown,In the rush of my storm-beat wings,Hawkins and Hawke went sailing downTo the glory of deep-sea kings!By the storm-beat wings of the hawk, the hawk,Bent beak and pitiless breast,They clove their way thro' the red sea-fray!Who wakens me now to the quest.
I
Chorus—Ships have swept with my conquering nameOver the waves of war,Swept thro' the Spaniards' thunder and flameTo the splendour of Trafalgar:On the blistered decks of their great renown,In the wind of my storm-beat wings,Hawkins and Hawke went sailing downTo the harbour of deep-sea kings!By the storm-beat wings of the hawk, the hawk,Bent beak and pitiless breast,They clove their way thro' the red sea-fray:Who wakens me now to the quest?
II
Hushed are the whimpering winds on the hill,Dumb is the shrinking plain,And the songs that enchanted the woods are stillAs I shoot to the skies again!Does the blood grow black on my fierce bent beak,Does the down still cling to my claw?Who brightened these eyes for the prey they seek?Life, I follow thy law!For I am the hawk, the hawk, the hawk!Who knoweth my pitiless breast?Who watcheth me sway in the wild wind's way?Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest.
III
As I glide and glide with my peering head,Or swerve at a puff of smoke,Who watcheth my wings on the wind outspread,Here—gone—with an instant stroke?Who toucheth the glory of life I feelAs I buffet this great glad gale,Spire and spire to the cloud-world, wheel,Loosen my wings and sail?For I am the hawk, the island hawk,Who knoweth my pitiless breast?Who watcheth me sway in the sun's bright way?Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest.
IV
Had they given me "Cloud-cuckoo-city" to guardBetween mankind and the sky,Tho' the dew might shine on an April sward,Iris had ne'er passed by!Swift as her beautiful wings might beFrom the rosy Olympian hill,Had Epops entrusted the gates to meEarth were his kingdom still.For I am the hawk, the archer, the hawk!Who knoweth my pitiless breast?Who watcheth me sway in the wild wind's way?Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest.
V
My mate in the nest on the high bright treeBlazing with dawn and dew,She knoweth the gleam of the world and the gleeAs I drop like a bolt from the blue;She knoweth the fire of the level flightAs I skim, close, close to the ground,With the long grass lashing my breast and the brightDew-drops flashing around.She watcheth the hawk, the hawk, the hawk,(O, the red-blotched eggs in the nest!)Watcheth him sway in the sun's bright way;Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest.
VI
She builded her nest on the high bright wold,She was taught in a world afar,The lore that is only an April oldYet old as the evening star;Life of a far off ancient dayIn an hour unhooded her eyes;In the time of the budding of one green sprayShe was wise as the stars are wise.Brown flower of the tree of the hawk, the hawk,On the old elm's burgeoning breast,She watcheth me sway in the wild wind's way;Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest.
VII
Spirit and sap of the sweet swift Spring,Fire of our island soul,Burn in her breast and pulse in her wingWhile the endless ages roll;Avatar—she—of the perilous prideThat plundered the golden West,Her glance is a sword, but it sweeps too wideFor a rumour to trouble her rest.She goeth her glorious way, the hawk,She nurseth her brood alone;She will not swoop for an owlet's whoop,She hath calls and cries of her own.
VIII
There was never a dale in our isle so deepThat her wide wings were not freeTo soar to the sovran heights and keepSight of the rolling sea:Is it there, is it here in the rolling skies,The realm of her future fame?Look once, look once in her glittering eyes,Ye shall find her the same, the same.Up to the sides with the hawk, the hawk,As it was in the days of old!Ye shall sail once more, ye shall soar, ye shall soarTo the new-found realms of gold.
IX
She hath ridden on white Arabian steedsThro' the ringing English dells,For the joy of a great queen, hunting in state,To the music of golden bells;A queen's fair fingers have drawn the hoodAnd tossed her aloft in the blue,A white hand eager for needless blood;I hunt for the needs of two.Yet I am the hawk, the hawk, the hawk!Who knoweth my pitiless breast?Who watcheth me sway in the sun's bright way?Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest.
X
Who fashioned her wide and splendid eyesThat have stared in the eyes of kings?With a silken twist she was looped to their wrist:She has clawed at their jewelled rings!Who flung her first thro' the crimson dawnTo pluck him a prey from the skies,When the love-light shone upon lake and lawnIn the valleys of Paradise?Who fashioned the hawk, the hawk, the hawk,Bent beak and pitiless breast?Who watcheth him sway in the wild wind's way?Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest.
XI
Is there ever a song in all the worldShall say how the quest beganWith the beak and the wings that have made us kingsAnd cruel—almost—as man?The wild wind whimpers across the heathWhere the sad little tufts of blueAnd the red-stained grey little feathers of deathFlutter!Who fashioned us? Who?Who fashioned the scimitar wings of the hawk,Bent beak and arrowy breast?Who watcheth him sway in the sun's bright way?Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest.
XII
Linnet and woodpecker, red-cap and jay,Shriek that a doom shall fallOne day, one day, on my pitiless wayFrom the sky that is over us all;But the great blue hawk of the heavens aboveFashioned the world for his prey,—King and queen and hawk and dove,We shall meet in his clutch that day;Shall I not welcome him, I, the hawk?Yea, cry, as they shrink from his claw,Cry, as I die, to the unknown sky,Life, I follow thy law!
XIII
Chorus—Ships have swept with my conquering name ...Over the world and beyond,Hark! Bellerophon, Marlborough, Thunderer,Condor, respond!—On the blistered decks of their dread renown,In the rush of my storm-beat wings,Hawkins and Hawke went sailing downTo the glory of deep-sea kings!By the storm-beat wings of the hawk, the hawk,Bent beak and pitiless breast,They clove their way thro' the red sea-fray!Who wakens me now to the quest.
I tell you a tale to-nightWhich a seaman told to me,With eyes that gleamed in the lanthorn lightAnd a voice as low as the sea.You could almost hear the starsTwinkling up in the sky,And the old wind woke and moaned in the spars,And the same old waves went by,Singing the same old songAs ages and ages ago,While he froze my blood in that deep-sea nightWith the things that he seemed to know.A bare foot pattered on deck;Ropes creaked; then—all grew still,And he pointed his finger straight in my faceAnd growled, as a sea-dog will."Do' ee know who Nelson was?That pore little shrivelled formWith the patch on his eye and the pinned-up sleeveAnd a soul like a North Sea storm?"Ask of the Devonshire men!They know, and they'll tell you true;He wasn't the pore little chawed-up chapThat Hardy thought he knew."He wasn't the man you think!His patch was a dern disguise!For he knew that they'd find him out, d'you see,If they looked him in both his eyes."He was twice as big as he seemed;But his clothes were cunningly made.He'd both of his hairy arms all right!The sleeve was a trick of the trade."You've heard of sperrits, no doubt;Well, there's more in the matter than that!But he wasn't the patch and he wasn't the sleeve,And he wasn't the laced cocked-hat."Nelson was just—a Ghost!You may laugh! But the Devonshire menThey knew that he'd come when England called,And they know that he'll come again."I'll tell you the way it was(For none of the landsmen know),And to tell it you right, you must go a-starnTwo hundred years or so.* * * *"The waves were lapping and slappingThe same as they are to-day;And Drake lay dying aboard his shipIn Nombre Dios Bay."The scent of the foreign flowersCame floating all around;'But I'd give my soul for the smell o' the pitch,'Says he, 'in Plymouth Sound.'"'What shall I do,' he says,'When the guns begin to roar,An' England wants me, and me not thereTo shatter 'er foes once more?'"(You've heard what he said, maybe,But I'll mark you the p'ints again;For I want you to box your compass rightAnd get my story plain.)"'You must take my drum,' he says,'To the old sea-wall at home;And if ever you strike that drum,' he says,'Why, strike me blind, I'll come!"'If England needs me, deadOr living, I'll rise that day!I'll rise from the darkness under the seaTen thousand miles away.'"That's what he said; and he died,An' his pirates, listenin' roun',With their crimson doublets and jewelled swordsThat flashed as the sun went down,"They sewed him up in his shroudWith a round-shot top and toe,To sink him under the salt sharp seaWhere all good seamen go."They lowered him down in the deep,And there in the sunset lightThey boomed a broadside over his grave,As meanin' to say 'Good-night.'"They sailed away in the darkTo the dear little isle they knew;And they hung his drum by the old sea-wallThe same as he told them to.* * * *"Two hundred years went by,And the guns began to roar,And England was fighting hard for her life,As ever she fought of yore."'It's only my dead that count,'She said, as she says to-day;'It isn't the ships and it isn't the guns'Ull sweep Trafalgar's Bay.'"D'you guess who Nelson was?You may laugh, but it's true as true!There was more in that pore little chawed-up chapThan ever his best friend knew."The foe was creepin' close,In the dark, to our white-cliffed isle;They were ready to leap at England's throat,When—O, you may smile, you may smile;"But—ask of the Devonshire men;For they heard in the dead of nightThe roll of a drum, and they sawhimpassOn a ship all shining white."He stretched out his dead cold faceAnd he sailed in the grand old way!The fishes had taken an eye and his arm,But he swept Trafalgar's Bay."Nelson—was Francis Drake!O, what matters the uniform,Or the patch on your eye or your pinned-up sleeve,If your soul's like a North Sea storm?"
I tell you a tale to-nightWhich a seaman told to me,With eyes that gleamed in the lanthorn lightAnd a voice as low as the sea.
You could almost hear the starsTwinkling up in the sky,And the old wind woke and moaned in the spars,And the same old waves went by,
Singing the same old songAs ages and ages ago,While he froze my blood in that deep-sea nightWith the things that he seemed to know.
A bare foot pattered on deck;Ropes creaked; then—all grew still,And he pointed his finger straight in my faceAnd growled, as a sea-dog will.
"Do' ee know who Nelson was?That pore little shrivelled formWith the patch on his eye and the pinned-up sleeveAnd a soul like a North Sea storm?
"Ask of the Devonshire men!They know, and they'll tell you true;He wasn't the pore little chawed-up chapThat Hardy thought he knew.
"He wasn't the man you think!His patch was a dern disguise!For he knew that they'd find him out, d'you see,If they looked him in both his eyes.
"He was twice as big as he seemed;But his clothes were cunningly made.He'd both of his hairy arms all right!The sleeve was a trick of the trade.
"You've heard of sperrits, no doubt;Well, there's more in the matter than that!But he wasn't the patch and he wasn't the sleeve,And he wasn't the laced cocked-hat.
"Nelson was just—a Ghost!You may laugh! But the Devonshire menThey knew that he'd come when England called,And they know that he'll come again.
"I'll tell you the way it was(For none of the landsmen know),And to tell it you right, you must go a-starnTwo hundred years or so.
* * * *
"The waves were lapping and slappingThe same as they are to-day;And Drake lay dying aboard his shipIn Nombre Dios Bay.
"The scent of the foreign flowersCame floating all around;'But I'd give my soul for the smell o' the pitch,'Says he, 'in Plymouth Sound.'
"'What shall I do,' he says,'When the guns begin to roar,An' England wants me, and me not thereTo shatter 'er foes once more?'
"(You've heard what he said, maybe,But I'll mark you the p'ints again;For I want you to box your compass rightAnd get my story plain.)
"'You must take my drum,' he says,'To the old sea-wall at home;And if ever you strike that drum,' he says,'Why, strike me blind, I'll come!
"'If England needs me, deadOr living, I'll rise that day!I'll rise from the darkness under the seaTen thousand miles away.'
"That's what he said; and he died,An' his pirates, listenin' roun',With their crimson doublets and jewelled swordsThat flashed as the sun went down,
"They sewed him up in his shroudWith a round-shot top and toe,To sink him under the salt sharp seaWhere all good seamen go.
"They lowered him down in the deep,And there in the sunset lightThey boomed a broadside over his grave,As meanin' to say 'Good-night.'
"They sailed away in the darkTo the dear little isle they knew;And they hung his drum by the old sea-wallThe same as he told them to.
* * * *
"Two hundred years went by,And the guns began to roar,And England was fighting hard for her life,As ever she fought of yore.
"'It's only my dead that count,'She said, as she says to-day;'It isn't the ships and it isn't the guns'Ull sweep Trafalgar's Bay.'
"D'you guess who Nelson was?You may laugh, but it's true as true!There was more in that pore little chawed-up chapThan ever his best friend knew.
"The foe was creepin' close,In the dark, to our white-cliffed isle;They were ready to leap at England's throat,When—O, you may smile, you may smile;
"But—ask of the Devonshire men;For they heard in the dead of nightThe roll of a drum, and they sawhimpassOn a ship all shining white.
"He stretched out his dead cold faceAnd he sailed in the grand old way!The fishes had taken an eye and his arm,But he swept Trafalgar's Bay.
"Nelson—was Francis Drake!O, what matters the uniform,Or the patch on your eye or your pinned-up sleeve,If your soul's like a North Sea storm?"
ICity of mist and rain and blown grey spaces,Dashed with wild wet colour and gleam of tears,Dreaming in Holyrood halls of the passionate facesLifted to one Queen's face that has conquered the years,Are not the halls of thy memory haunted places?Cometh there not as a moon (where the blood-rust searsFloors a-flutter of old with silks and laces),Gliding, a ghostly Queen, thro' a mist of tears?IIProudly here, with a loftier pinnacled splendour,Throned in his northern Athens, what spells remainStill on the marble lips of the Wizard, and renderSilent the gazer on glory without a stain!Here and here, do we whisper, with hearts more tender,Tusitala wandered thro' mist and rain;Rainbow-eyed and frail and gallant and slender,Dreaming of pirate-isles in a jewelled main.IIIUp the Canongate climbeth, cleft asunderRaggedly here, with a glimpse of the distant seaFlashed through a crumbling alley, a glimpse of wonder,Nay, for the City is throned on Eternity!Hark! from the soaring castle a cannon's thunderCloseth an hour for the world and an æon for me,Gazing at last from the martial heights whereunderDeathless memories roll to an ageless sea.
I
City of mist and rain and blown grey spaces,Dashed with wild wet colour and gleam of tears,Dreaming in Holyrood halls of the passionate facesLifted to one Queen's face that has conquered the years,Are not the halls of thy memory haunted places?Cometh there not as a moon (where the blood-rust searsFloors a-flutter of old with silks and laces),Gliding, a ghostly Queen, thro' a mist of tears?
II
Proudly here, with a loftier pinnacled splendour,Throned in his northern Athens, what spells remainStill on the marble lips of the Wizard, and renderSilent the gazer on glory without a stain!Here and here, do we whisper, with hearts more tender,Tusitala wandered thro' mist and rain;Rainbow-eyed and frail and gallant and slender,Dreaming of pirate-isles in a jewelled main.
III
Up the Canongate climbeth, cleft asunderRaggedly here, with a glimpse of the distant seaFlashed through a crumbling alley, a glimpse of wonder,Nay, for the City is throned on Eternity!Hark! from the soaring castle a cannon's thunderCloseth an hour for the world and an æon for me,Gazing at last from the martial heights whereunderDeathless memories roll to an ageless sea.
Three long isles of sunset-cloud,Poised in an ocean of gold,Floated away in the westAs the long train southward rolled;And through the gleam and shade of the panes,While meadow and wood went by,Across the streaming earthWe watched the steadfast sky.Dark before the westward window,Heavy and bloated, rolledThe face of a drunken womanNodding against the gold;Dark before the infinite glory,With bleared and leering eyes,It stupidly lurched and noddedAgainst the tender skies.What had ye done to her, masters of men,That her head be bowed down thus—Thus for your golden vespers,And deepening angelus?Dark, besotted, malignant, vacant,Slobbering, wrinkled, old,Weary and wickedly smiling,She nodded against the gold.Pitiful, loathsome, maudlin, lonely,Her moist, inhuman eyesBlinked at the flies on the window,And could not see the skies.As a beast that turns and returns to a mirrorAnd will not see its face,Her eyes rejected the sunset,Her soul lay dead in its place,Dead in the furrows and folds of her fleshAs a corpse lies lapped in the shroud;Silently floated beside herThe isles of sunset-cloud.What had ye done to her, years upon years,That her head should be bowed down thus—Thus for your golden vespers,And deepening angelus?Her nails were blackened and split with labour,Her back was heavily bowed;Silently floated beside herThe isles of sunset-cloud.Over their tapering streaks of lilac,In breathless depths afar,Bright as the tear of an angelGlittered a lonely star.While the hills and the streams of the world went past us,And the long train roared and rolledSouthward, and dusk was falling,She nodded against the gold.
Three long isles of sunset-cloud,Poised in an ocean of gold,Floated away in the westAs the long train southward rolled;
And through the gleam and shade of the panes,While meadow and wood went by,Across the streaming earthWe watched the steadfast sky.
Dark before the westward window,Heavy and bloated, rolledThe face of a drunken womanNodding against the gold;
Dark before the infinite glory,With bleared and leering eyes,It stupidly lurched and noddedAgainst the tender skies.
What had ye done to her, masters of men,That her head be bowed down thus—Thus for your golden vespers,And deepening angelus?
Dark, besotted, malignant, vacant,Slobbering, wrinkled, old,Weary and wickedly smiling,She nodded against the gold.
Pitiful, loathsome, maudlin, lonely,Her moist, inhuman eyesBlinked at the flies on the window,And could not see the skies.
As a beast that turns and returns to a mirrorAnd will not see its face,Her eyes rejected the sunset,Her soul lay dead in its place,
Dead in the furrows and folds of her fleshAs a corpse lies lapped in the shroud;Silently floated beside herThe isles of sunset-cloud.
What had ye done to her, years upon years,That her head should be bowed down thus—Thus for your golden vespers,And deepening angelus?
Her nails were blackened and split with labour,Her back was heavily bowed;Silently floated beside herThe isles of sunset-cloud.
Over their tapering streaks of lilac,In breathless depths afar,Bright as the tear of an angelGlittered a lonely star.
While the hills and the streams of the world went past us,And the long train roared and rolledSouthward, and dusk was falling,She nodded against the gold.
Down the dark alley a ring of orange lightGlows. God, what leprous tatters of distress,Droppings of misery, rags of Thy lonelinessQuiver and heave like vermin, out of the night!Like crippled rats, creeping out of the gloom,O Life, for one of thy terrible moments there,Lit by the little flickering yellow flare,Faces that mock at life and death and doom,Faces that long, long since have known the worst,Faces of women that have seen the childWaste in their arms, and strangely, terribly, smiledWhen the dark nipple of death has eased its thirst;Faces of men that once, though long ago,Saw the faint light of hope, though far away,—Hope that, at end of some tremendous day,They yet might reach some life where tears could flow;Faces of our humanity, ravaged, white,Wrenched with old love, old hate, older despair,Steal out of vile filth-dropping dens to stareOn that wild monstrance of a naphtha light.They crowd before the stall's bright altar rail,Grotesque, and sacred, for that light's brief span,And all the shuddering darkness cries, "All hail,Daughters and Sons of Man!"See, see, once more, though all their souls be dead,They hold it up, triumphantly hold it up,They feel, they warm their hands upon the Cup;Their crapulous hands, their claw-like hands break Bread!See, with lean faces rapturously a-glowFor a brief while they dream and munch and drink;Then, one by one, once more, silently slinkBack, back into the gulfing mist. They go,One by one, out of the ring of light!They creep, like crippled rats, into the gloom,Into the fogs of life and death and doom,Into the night, the immeasurable night.
Down the dark alley a ring of orange lightGlows. God, what leprous tatters of distress,Droppings of misery, rags of Thy lonelinessQuiver and heave like vermin, out of the night!
Like crippled rats, creeping out of the gloom,O Life, for one of thy terrible moments there,Lit by the little flickering yellow flare,Faces that mock at life and death and doom,
Faces that long, long since have known the worst,Faces of women that have seen the childWaste in their arms, and strangely, terribly, smiledWhen the dark nipple of death has eased its thirst;
Faces of men that once, though long ago,Saw the faint light of hope, though far away,—Hope that, at end of some tremendous day,They yet might reach some life where tears could flow;
Faces of our humanity, ravaged, white,Wrenched with old love, old hate, older despair,Steal out of vile filth-dropping dens to stareOn that wild monstrance of a naphtha light.
They crowd before the stall's bright altar rail,Grotesque, and sacred, for that light's brief span,And all the shuddering darkness cries, "All hail,Daughters and Sons of Man!"
See, see, once more, though all their souls be dead,They hold it up, triumphantly hold it up,They feel, they warm their hands upon the Cup;Their crapulous hands, their claw-like hands break Bread!
See, with lean faces rapturously a-glowFor a brief while they dream and munch and drink;Then, one by one, once more, silently slinkBack, back into the gulfing mist. They go,
One by one, out of the ring of light!They creep, like crippled rats, into the gloom,Into the fogs of life and death and doom,Into the night, the immeasurable night.
IThe Dawn peered in with blood-shot eyesPressed close against the cracked old pane.The garret slept: the slow sad rainHad ceased: grey fogs obscured the skies;But Dawn peered in with haggard eyes.IIAll as last night? The three-legged chair,The bare walls and the tattered bed,All!—but for those wild flakes of red(And Dawn, perhaps, had splashed them there!)Round the bare walls, the bed, the chair.III'Twas here, last night, when winds were loud,A ragged singing-girl, she cameOut of the tavern's glare and shame,With some few pence—for she was proud—Came home to sleep, when winds were loud.IVAnd she sleeps well; for she was tired!That huddled shape beneath the sheetWith knees up-drawn, no wind or sleetCan wake her now! Sleep she desired;And she sleeps well, for she was tired.VAnd there was one that followed herWith some unhappy curse called "love":Last night, though winds beat loud above,She shrank! Hark, on the creaking stair,What stealthy footstep followed her?VIBut now the Curse, it seemed, had gone!The small tin-box, wherein she hidOld childish treasures, had burst its lid.Dawn kissed her doll's cracked face. It shoneRed-smeared, but laughing—the Curse is gone.VIISo she sleeps well: she does not move;And on the wall, the chair, the bed,Is it the Dawn that splashes red,High as the text whereGod is LoveHangs o'er her head? She does not move.VIIIThe clock dictates its old refrain:All else is quiet; or, far away,Shaking the world with new-born day,There thunders past some mighty train:The clock dictates its old refrain.IXThe Dawn peers in with blood-shot eyes:The crust, the broken cup are there!She does not rise yet to prepareHer scanty meal. God does not riseAnd pluck the blood-stained sheet from her;But Dawn peers in with haggard eyes.
I
The Dawn peered in with blood-shot eyesPressed close against the cracked old pane.The garret slept: the slow sad rainHad ceased: grey fogs obscured the skies;But Dawn peered in with haggard eyes.
II
All as last night? The three-legged chair,The bare walls and the tattered bed,All!—but for those wild flakes of red(And Dawn, perhaps, had splashed them there!)Round the bare walls, the bed, the chair.
III
'Twas here, last night, when winds were loud,A ragged singing-girl, she cameOut of the tavern's glare and shame,With some few pence—for she was proud—Came home to sleep, when winds were loud.
IV
And she sleeps well; for she was tired!That huddled shape beneath the sheetWith knees up-drawn, no wind or sleetCan wake her now! Sleep she desired;And she sleeps well, for she was tired.
V
And there was one that followed herWith some unhappy curse called "love":Last night, though winds beat loud above,She shrank! Hark, on the creaking stair,What stealthy footstep followed her?
VI
But now the Curse, it seemed, had gone!The small tin-box, wherein she hidOld childish treasures, had burst its lid.Dawn kissed her doll's cracked face. It shoneRed-smeared, but laughing—the Curse is gone.
VII
So she sleeps well: she does not move;And on the wall, the chair, the bed,Is it the Dawn that splashes red,High as the text whereGod is LoveHangs o'er her head? She does not move.
VIII
The clock dictates its old refrain:All else is quiet; or, far away,Shaking the world with new-born day,There thunders past some mighty train:The clock dictates its old refrain.
IX
The Dawn peers in with blood-shot eyes:The crust, the broken cup are there!She does not rise yet to prepareHer scanty meal. God does not riseAnd pluck the blood-stained sheet from her;But Dawn peers in with haggard eyes.
IOnce upon a time!—Ah, now the light is burning dimly.Peterkin is here again: he wants another tale!Don't you hear him whispering—The wind is in the chimley,The ottoman's a treasure-ship, we'll all set sail?IIAll set sail? No, the wind is very loud to-night:The darkness on the waters is much deeper than of yore.Yet I wonder—hark, he whispers—if the little streets are still as brightIn old Japan, in old Japan, that happy haunted shore.IIII wonder—hush, he whispers—if perhaps the world will wake againWhen Christmas brings the stories back from where the skies are blue,Where clouds are scattering diamonds down on every cottage window-pane,And every boy's a fairy prince, and every tale is true.IVThere the sword Excalibur is thrust into the dragon's throat,Evil there is evil, black is black, and white is white:There the child triumphant hurls the villain spluttering into the moat;There the captured princess only waits the peerless knight.VFairyland is gleaming there beyond the Sherwood Forest trees,There the City of the Clouds has anchored on the plainAll her misty vistas and slumber-rosy palaces(Shall we not, ah, shall we not, wander there again?)VI"Happy ever after" there, the lights of home a welcome flingSoftly thro' the darkness as the star that shone of old,Softly over Bethlehem and o'er the little cradled KingWhom the sages worshipped with their frankincense and gold.VIIOnce upon a time—perhaps a hundred thousand years ago—Whisper to me, Peterkin, I have forgotten when!Once upon a time there was a way, a way we used to knowFor stealing off at twilight from the weary ways of men.VIIIWhisper it, O whisper it—the way, the way is all I need!All the heart and will are here and all the deep desire!Once upon a time—ah, now the light is drawing near indeed,I see the fairy faces flush to roses round the fire.IXOnce upon a time—the little lips are on my cheek again,Little fairy fingers clasped and clinging draw me nigh,Dreams, no more than dreams, but they unloose the weary prisoner's chainAnd lead him from his dungeon! "What's a thousand years?" they cry.XA thousand years, a thousand years, a little drifting dream ago,All of us were hunting with a band of merry men,The skies were blue, the boughs were green, the clouds were crisping isles of snow ...... So Robin blew his bugle, and the Now became the Then.
I
Once upon a time!—Ah, now the light is burning dimly.Peterkin is here again: he wants another tale!Don't you hear him whispering—The wind is in the chimley,The ottoman's a treasure-ship, we'll all set sail?
II
All set sail? No, the wind is very loud to-night:The darkness on the waters is much deeper than of yore.Yet I wonder—hark, he whispers—if the little streets are still as brightIn old Japan, in old Japan, that happy haunted shore.
III
I wonder—hush, he whispers—if perhaps the world will wake againWhen Christmas brings the stories back from where the skies are blue,Where clouds are scattering diamonds down on every cottage window-pane,And every boy's a fairy prince, and every tale is true.
IV
There the sword Excalibur is thrust into the dragon's throat,Evil there is evil, black is black, and white is white:There the child triumphant hurls the villain spluttering into the moat;There the captured princess only waits the peerless knight.
V
Fairyland is gleaming there beyond the Sherwood Forest trees,There the City of the Clouds has anchored on the plainAll her misty vistas and slumber-rosy palaces(Shall we not, ah, shall we not, wander there again?)
VI
"Happy ever after" there, the lights of home a welcome flingSoftly thro' the darkness as the star that shone of old,Softly over Bethlehem and o'er the little cradled KingWhom the sages worshipped with their frankincense and gold.
VII
Once upon a time—perhaps a hundred thousand years ago—Whisper to me, Peterkin, I have forgotten when!Once upon a time there was a way, a way we used to knowFor stealing off at twilight from the weary ways of men.
VIII
Whisper it, O whisper it—the way, the way is all I need!All the heart and will are here and all the deep desire!Once upon a time—ah, now the light is drawing near indeed,I see the fairy faces flush to roses round the fire.
IX
Once upon a time—the little lips are on my cheek again,Little fairy fingers clasped and clinging draw me nigh,Dreams, no more than dreams, but they unloose the weary prisoner's chainAnd lead him from his dungeon! "What's a thousand years?" they cry.
X
A thousand years, a thousand years, a little drifting dream ago,All of us were hunting with a band of merry men,The skies were blue, the boughs were green, the clouds were crisping isles of snow ...... So Robin blew his bugle, and the Now became the Then.
IAll the way to Fairyland across the thyme and heather,Round a little bank of fern that rustled on the sky,Me and stick and bundle, sir, we jogged along together,—(Changeable the weather? Well—it ain't all pie!)Just about the sunset—Won't you listen to my story?—Look at me! I'm only rags and tatters to your eye!Sir, that blooming sunset crowned this battered hat with glory!Me that was a crawling worm became a butterfly—(Ain't it hot and dry?Thank you, sir, thank you, sir!) a blooming butterfly.IIWell, it happened this way! I was lying loose and lazy,Just as, of a Sunday, you yourself might think no shame,Puffing little clouds of smoke, and picking at a daisy,Dreaming of your dinner, p'raps, or wishful for the same:Suddenly, around that ferny bank there slowly waddled—Slowly as the finger of a clock her shadow came—Slowly as a tortoise down that winding path she toddled,Leaning on a crookèd staff, a poor old crookèd dame,Limping, but not lame,Tick, tack, tick, tack, a poor old crookèd dame.IIISlowly did I say, sir? Well, you've heard that funny fableConsekint the tortoise and the race it give an 'are?This was curiouser than that! At first I wasn't ableQuite to size the memory up that bristled thro' my hair:Suddenly, I'd got it, with a nasty shivery feeling,While she walked and walked and yet was not a bit more near,—Sir, it was the tread-mill earth beneath her feet a-wheelingFaster than her feet could trot to heaven or anywhere,Earth's revolvin' stairWheeling, while my wayside clump was kind of anchored there.IVTick, tack, tick, tack, and just a little nearer,Inch and 'arf an inch she went, but never gained a yard:Quiet as a fox I lay; I didn't wish to scare 'er,Watching thro' the ferns, and thinking "What a rum old card!"Both her wrinkled tortoise eyes with yellow resin oozing,Both her poor old bony hands were red and seamed and scarred!Lord, I felt as if myself was in a public boozing,While my own old woman went about and scrubbed and charred!Lord, it seemed so hard!Tick, tack, tick, tack, she never gained a yard.VYus, and there in front of her—I hadn't seen it rightly—Lurked that little finger-post to point another road,Just a tiny path of poppies twisting infi-nite-lyThrough the whispering seas of wheat, a scarlet thread that showedWhite with ox-eye daisies here and there and chalky cobbles,Blue with waving corn-flowers: far and far away it glowed,Winding into heaven, I thinks; but, Lord, the way she hobbles,Lord, she'll never reach it, for she bears too great a load;Yus, and then I knowed,If she did, she couldn't, for the board was markedNo Road.VITick, tack, tick, tack, I couldn't wait no longer!Up I gets and bows polite and pleasant as a toff—"Arternoon," I says, "I'm glad your boots are going stronger;Only thing I'm dreading is your feet 'ull both come off."Tick, tack, tick, tack, she didn't stop to answer,"Arternoon," she says, and sort o' chokes a little cough,"I must get to Piddinghoe to-morrow if I can, sir!""Demme, my good woman! Haw! Don't think I mean to loff,"Says I, like a toff,"Where d'you mean to sleep to-night? God made this grass for go'ff."VIITick, tack, tick, tack, and smilingly she eyed me(Dreadful the low cunning of these creechars, don't you think?)"That's all right! The weather's bright. Them bushes there 'ull hide me.Don't the gorse smell nice?" I felt my derned old eyelids blink!"Supper? I've a crust of bread, a big one, and a bottle,"(Just as I expected! Ah, these creechars always drink!)"Sugar and water and half a pinch of tea to rinse my throttle,Then I'll curl up cosy!"—"If you're cotched it means the clink!"—"Yus, but don't you thinkIf a star should see me, God 'ull tell that star to wink?"VIII"Now, look here," I says, "I don't know what your blooming age is!""Three-score years and five," she says, "that's five more years to goTick, tack, tick tack, before I gets my wages!""Wages all be damned," I says, "there's one thing that I know—Gals that stay out late o' nights are sure to meet wi' sorrow.Speaking as a toff," I says, "it isn'tcomme il faut!Tell me why you want to get to Piddinghoe to-morrow."—"That was where my son worked, twenty years ago!"—"Twenty years ago?Never wrote? May still be there? Remember you?... Just so!"IXYus, it was a drama; but she weren't my long-lost parent!Tick, tack, tick, tack, she trotted all the while,Never getting forrarder, and not the least aware on't,Though I stood beside her with a sort of silly smileStock-still!Tick, tack! This blooming world's a bubble:There I stood and stared at it, mile on flowery mile,Chasing o' the sunset,—"Gals are sure to meet wi' troubleStaying out o' nights," I says, once more, and tries to smile,"Come, that ain't your style,Here's a shilling, mother, for to-day I've made my pile!"XYus, a dozen coppers, all my capital, it fled, sir,Representin' twelve bokays that cost me nothink each,Twelve bokays o' corn-flowers blue that grew beside my bed, sir,That same day, at sunrise, when the sky was like a peach:Easy as a poet's dreams they blossomed round my head, sir,All I had to do was just to lift my hand and reach:So, upon the roaring waves I cast my blooming bread, sir,Bread I'd earned with nose-gays on the bare-foot Brighton beach,Nose-gaysanda speech,All about the bright blue eyes they matched on Brighton beach.XIStill, you've only got to hear the bankers on the budget,Then you'll know the giving game is hardly "high finance";Which no more it wasn't for that poor old dame to trudge it,Tick, tack, tick, tack, on such a devil's dance:Crumbs, it took me quite aback to see her stop so humble,Casting up into my face a sort of shiny glance,Bless you, bless you, that was what I thought I heard her mumble;Lord, a prayer for poor old Bill, a rummy sort of chance!Crumbs, that shiny glanceKinder made me king of all the sky from here to France.XIITick, tack, tick, tack, but now she toddled faster:Soon she'd reach the little twisted by-way through the wheat."Look 'ee here," I says, "young woman, don't you court disaster!Peepin' through yon poppies there's a cottage trim and neatWhite as chalk and sweet as turf: wot price a bed for sorrow,Sprigs of lavender between the pillow and the sheet?""No," she says, "I've got to get to Piddinghoe to-morrow!P'raps they'd tell the work'us! And I've lashings here to eat:Don't the gorse smell sweet?"...Well, I turned and left her plodding on beside the wheat.XIIIEvery cent I'd given her like a hero in a story;Yet, alone with leagues of wheat I seemed to grow awareSolomon himself, arrayed in all his golden glory,Couldn't vie with Me, the corn-flower king, the millionaire!How to cash those bright blue cheques that night? My trouser pocketsJingled sudden! Six more pennies, crept from James knew where!Crumbs! I hurried back with eyes just bulging from their sockets,Pushed 'em in the old dame's fist and listened for the prayer,Shamming not to care,Bill—the blarsted chicken-thief, the corn-flower millionaire.XIVTick, tack, tick, tack, and faster yet she clattered!Ay, she'd almost gained a yard! I left her once again.Feeling very warm inside and sort of 'ighly flattered,On I plodded, all alone, with hay-stacks in my brain.Suddenly, withchink—chink—chink, the old sweet jingleStartled me!'Twas thruppence more! Three coppers round and plain!Lord, temptation struck me and I felt my gullet tingle.Then—I hurried back, beside them seas of golden grain:No, I can't explain;There I thrust 'em in her fist, and left her once again.XVTinkle-chink!Three ha'pence! If the vulgar fractions followed,Big fleas have little fleas! It flashed upon me there,—Like the snakes of Pharaoh which the snakes of Moses swallowedAll the world was playing at the tortoise and the hare:Half the smallest atom is—my soul was getting tipsy—Heaven is one big circle and the centre's everywhere,Yus, and that old woman was an angel and a gipsy,Yus, and Bill, the chicken-thief, the corn-flower millionaire,Shamming not to care,What was he? A seraph on the misty rainbow-stair!XVIDon't you make no doubt of it! The deeper that you look, sir,All your ancient poets tell you just the same as me,—What about old Ovid and his most indecent book, sir,Morphosizing females into flower and star and tree?What about old Proteus and his 'ighly curious 'abits,Mixing of his old grey beard into the old grey sea?What about old Darwin and the hat that brought forth rabbits,Mud and slime that growed into the pomp of Ninevey?What if there should beOne great Power beneath it all, one God in you and me?XVIIAnyway, it seemed to me I'd struck the world's pump-handle!"Back with that three ha'pence, Bill," I mutters, "or you're lost."Back I hurries thro' the dusk where, shining like a candle,Pale before the sunset stood that fairy finger-post.Sir, she wasn't there!I'd struck the place where all roads crost,All the roads in all the world.She couldn't yet have trottedEven to the ... Hist! a stealthy step behind? A ghost?Swish! A flying noose had caught me round the neck! Garotted!Back I staggered, clutching at the moonbeams, yus, almostThrottled! Sir, I boastBill is tough, but ... when it comes to throttling by a ghost!* * * *XVIIIWinged like a butterfly, tall and slenderOut It steps with the rope on its arm."Crumbs," I says, "all right! I surrender!When have I crossed you or done you harm?Efyou're a sperrit," I says, "O, crikey,Efyou're a sperrit, get hence, vamoose!"Sweet as music, she spoke—"I'm Psyche!"—Choking me still with her silken noose.XIXStraight at the word from the ferns and blossomsFretting the moon-rise over the downs,Little blue wings and little white bosoms,Little white faces with golden crownsPeeped, and the colours came twinkling round me,Laughed, and the turf grew purple with thyme,Danced, and the sweet crushed scents nigh drowned me,Sang, and the hare-bells rang in chime.XXAll around me, gliding and gleaming,Fair as a fallen sunset-sky,Butterfly wings came drifting, dreaming,Clouds of the little folk clustered nigh,Little white hands like pearls upliftedCords of silk in shimmering skeins,Cast them about me and dreamily driftedWinding me round with their soft warm chains.XXIRound and round me they dizzily floated,Binding me faster with every turn:Crumbs, my pals would have grinned and gloatedWatching me over that fringe of fern,Bill, with his battered old hat outstandingBlack as a foam-swept rock to the moon,Bill, like a rainbow of silks expandingInto a beautiful big cocoon,—XXIIBig as a cloud, though his hat still crowned him,Yus, and his old boots bulged below:Seas of colour went shimmering round him,Dancing, glimmering, glancing a-glow!Bill knew well what them elves were at, sir,—Ain't you an en-to-mol-o-gist?Well, despite of his old black hat, sir,Bill wasbecoming—a chrysalist.* * * *XXIIIMuffled, smothered in a sea of emerald and opal,Down a dazzling gulf of dreams I sank and sank away,Wound about with twenty thousand yards of silken rope, allShimmering into crimson, glimmering into grey,Drowsing, waking, living, dying, just as you regards it,Buried in a sunset-cloud, or cloud of breaking day,'Cording as from East or West yourself might look towards it,Losing, gaining, lost in darkness, ragged, grimy, gay,'And-cuffed, not to sayGagged, but both my shoulders budding, sprouting white as May.XXIVSprouting like the milky buds o' hawthorn in the night-time,Pouting like the snowy buds o' roses in July,Spreading in my chrysalist and waiting for the right time,When—I thought—they'd bust to wings and Bill would rise and fly,Tick, tack, tick, tack, as if it came in answer,Sweeping o'er my head again the tide o' dreams went by,—I must get to Piddinghoe to-morrow if I can, sir,Tick, tack, a crackle in my chrysalist, a cry!Then the warm blue skyBust the shell, and out crept Bill—a blooming butterfly!* * * *XXVBlue as a corn-flower, blazed the zenith: the deepening East like a scarlet poppyBurned while, dazzled with golden bloom, white clouds like daisies, green seas like wheat,Gripping the sign-post, first, I climbs, to sun my wings, which were wrinkled and floppy,Spreading 'em white o'er the wordsNo Road, and hanging fast by my six black feet.XXVIStill on my head was the battered old beaver, but through it my clubbed antennæ slanted,("Feelers" yourself would probably call 'em) my battered old boots were hardly seenUnder the golden fluff of the tail! It was Bill, sir, Bill, though highly enchanted,Spreading his beautiful snow-white pinions, tipped with orange, and veined with green.XXVIIYus, old Bill was an Orange-tip, a spirit in glory, a blooming Psyche!New, it was new from East to West this rummy old world that I dreamed I knew,How can I tell you the things that I saw with my—what shallIcall 'em?—"feelers?"—O, crikey,"Feelers?" You know how the man born blind described such colours as scarlet or blue.XXVIII"Scarlet," he says, "is the sound of a trumpet, blue is a flute," for he hasn't a notion!No, nor nobody living on earth can tell it him plain, if he hasn't the sight!That's how it stands with ragged old Bill, a-drift and a-dream on a measureless ocean,Gifted wi' fifteen new-born senses, and seeing you blind to their new strange light.XXIXHow can I tell you? Sir, you must wait, till you die like Bill, ere you understand it!Only—I saw—the same as a bee that strikes to his hive ten leagues away—Straight as a die, while I winked and blinked on that sun-warmed wood and my wings expanded(Whistler drawings that men call wings)—I saw—and I flew—that's all I can say.XXXFlew over leagues of whispering wonder, fairy forests and flowery palaces,Love-lorn casements, delicate kingdoms, beautiful flaming thoughts of—Him;Feasts of a million blue-mailed angels lifting their honey-and-wine-brimmed chalices,Throned upon clouds—(which you'd call white clover) down to the world's most rosiest rim.XXXINew and new and new and new, the white o' the cliffs and the wind in the heather,Yus, and the sea-gulls flying like flakes of the sea that flashed to the new-born day,Song, song, song, song, quivering up in the wild blue weather,Thousands of seraphim singing together, and me just flying and—knowing my way.XXXIIStraight as a die to Piddinghoe's dolphin, and there I drops in a cottage garden,There, on a sun-warmed window-sill, I winks and peeps, for the window was wide!Crumbs, he was there and fast in her arms and a-begging his poor old mother's pardon,There with his lips on her old grey hair, and her head on his breast while she laughed and cried,—XXXIII"One and nine-pence that old tramp gave me, or else I should never have reached you, sonny,Never, and you just leaving the village to-day and meaning to cross the sea,One and nine-pence he gave me, I paid for the farmer's lift with half o' the money!Here's the ten-pence halfpenny, sonny, 'twill pay for our little 'ouse-warming tea."* * * *XXXIVTick, tack, tick, tack, out into the gardenToddles that old Fairy with his arm about her—so,Cuddling of her still, and still a-begging of her pardon,While she says "I wish the corn-flower king could only know!Bless him, bless him, once again," she says and softly gazesUp to heaven, a-smiling in her mutch as white as snow,All among her gilly-flowers and stocks and double daisies,Mignonette, forget-me-not,... Twenty years ago,All a rosy glow,This is how it was, she said,Twenty years ago.* * * *XXXVOnce again I seemed to wake, the vision it had fled, sir,There I lay upon the downs: the sky was like a peach;Yus, with twelve bokays of corn-flowers blue beside my bed, sir,More than usual 'andsome, so they'd bring me two-pence each.Easy as a poet's dreams they blossomed round my head, sir,All I had to do was just to lift my hand and reach,Tie 'em with a bit of string, and earn my blooming bread, sir,Selling little nose-gays on the bare-foot Brighton beach,Nose-gaysanda speech,All about the bright blue eyes they matched on Brighton beach.XXXVIOverhead the singing lark and underfoot the heather,Far and blue in front of us the unplumbed sky,Me and stick and bundle, O, we jogs along together,(Changeable the weather? Well, it ain't all pie!)Weather's like a woman, sir, and if she wants to quarrel,If her eyes begin to flash and hair begins to fly,You've to wait a little, then—the story has a moral—Ain't the sunny kisses all the sweeter by and bye?—(Crumbs, it's 'ot and dry!Thank you, sir! Thank you, sir!) the sweeter by and bye.XXXVIISo the world's my sweetheart and I sort of want to squeeze 'er.Toffs 'ull get no chance of heaven, take 'em in the lump!Never laid in hay-fields when the dawn came over-sea, sir?Guess it's true that story 'bout the needle and the hump!Never crept into a stack because the wind was blowing,Hollered out a nest and closed the door-way with a clump,Laid and heard the whisper of the silence, growing, growing,Watched a thousand wheeling stars and wondered if they'd bump?What I say would stumpJoshua! But I've done it, sir. Don't think I'm off my chump.XXXVIIIIf you try and lay, sir, with your face turned up to wonder,Up to twenty million miles of stars that roll like one,Right across to God knows where, and you just huddled underLike a little beetle with no business of his own,There you'd hear—like growing grass—a funny silent sound, sir,Mixed with curious crackles in a steady undertone,Just the sound of twenty billion stars a-going round, sir,Yus, and you beneath 'em like a wise old ant, alone,Ant upon a stone,Waving of his antlers, on the Sussex downs, alone.
I
All the way to Fairyland across the thyme and heather,Round a little bank of fern that rustled on the sky,Me and stick and bundle, sir, we jogged along together,—(Changeable the weather? Well—it ain't all pie!)Just about the sunset—Won't you listen to my story?—Look at me! I'm only rags and tatters to your eye!Sir, that blooming sunset crowned this battered hat with glory!Me that was a crawling worm became a butterfly—(Ain't it hot and dry?Thank you, sir, thank you, sir!) a blooming butterfly.
II
Well, it happened this way! I was lying loose and lazy,Just as, of a Sunday, you yourself might think no shame,Puffing little clouds of smoke, and picking at a daisy,Dreaming of your dinner, p'raps, or wishful for the same:Suddenly, around that ferny bank there slowly waddled—Slowly as the finger of a clock her shadow came—Slowly as a tortoise down that winding path she toddled,Leaning on a crookèd staff, a poor old crookèd dame,Limping, but not lame,Tick, tack, tick, tack, a poor old crookèd dame.
III
Slowly did I say, sir? Well, you've heard that funny fableConsekint the tortoise and the race it give an 'are?This was curiouser than that! At first I wasn't ableQuite to size the memory up that bristled thro' my hair:Suddenly, I'd got it, with a nasty shivery feeling,While she walked and walked and yet was not a bit more near,—Sir, it was the tread-mill earth beneath her feet a-wheelingFaster than her feet could trot to heaven or anywhere,Earth's revolvin' stairWheeling, while my wayside clump was kind of anchored there.
IV
Tick, tack, tick, tack, and just a little nearer,Inch and 'arf an inch she went, but never gained a yard:Quiet as a fox I lay; I didn't wish to scare 'er,Watching thro' the ferns, and thinking "What a rum old card!"Both her wrinkled tortoise eyes with yellow resin oozing,Both her poor old bony hands were red and seamed and scarred!Lord, I felt as if myself was in a public boozing,While my own old woman went about and scrubbed and charred!Lord, it seemed so hard!Tick, tack, tick, tack, she never gained a yard.
V
Yus, and there in front of her—I hadn't seen it rightly—Lurked that little finger-post to point another road,Just a tiny path of poppies twisting infi-nite-lyThrough the whispering seas of wheat, a scarlet thread that showedWhite with ox-eye daisies here and there and chalky cobbles,Blue with waving corn-flowers: far and far away it glowed,Winding into heaven, I thinks; but, Lord, the way she hobbles,Lord, she'll never reach it, for she bears too great a load;Yus, and then I knowed,If she did, she couldn't, for the board was markedNo Road.
VI
Tick, tack, tick, tack, I couldn't wait no longer!Up I gets and bows polite and pleasant as a toff—"Arternoon," I says, "I'm glad your boots are going stronger;Only thing I'm dreading is your feet 'ull both come off."Tick, tack, tick, tack, she didn't stop to answer,"Arternoon," she says, and sort o' chokes a little cough,"I must get to Piddinghoe to-morrow if I can, sir!""Demme, my good woman! Haw! Don't think I mean to loff,"Says I, like a toff,"Where d'you mean to sleep to-night? God made this grass for go'ff."
VII
Tick, tack, tick, tack, and smilingly she eyed me(Dreadful the low cunning of these creechars, don't you think?)"That's all right! The weather's bright. Them bushes there 'ull hide me.Don't the gorse smell nice?" I felt my derned old eyelids blink!"Supper? I've a crust of bread, a big one, and a bottle,"(Just as I expected! Ah, these creechars always drink!)"Sugar and water and half a pinch of tea to rinse my throttle,Then I'll curl up cosy!"—"If you're cotched it means the clink!"—"Yus, but don't you thinkIf a star should see me, God 'ull tell that star to wink?"
VIII
"Now, look here," I says, "I don't know what your blooming age is!""Three-score years and five," she says, "that's five more years to goTick, tack, tick tack, before I gets my wages!""Wages all be damned," I says, "there's one thing that I know—Gals that stay out late o' nights are sure to meet wi' sorrow.Speaking as a toff," I says, "it isn'tcomme il faut!Tell me why you want to get to Piddinghoe to-morrow."—"That was where my son worked, twenty years ago!"—"Twenty years ago?Never wrote? May still be there? Remember you?... Just so!"
IX
Yus, it was a drama; but she weren't my long-lost parent!Tick, tack, tick, tack, she trotted all the while,Never getting forrarder, and not the least aware on't,Though I stood beside her with a sort of silly smileStock-still!Tick, tack! This blooming world's a bubble:There I stood and stared at it, mile on flowery mile,Chasing o' the sunset,—"Gals are sure to meet wi' troubleStaying out o' nights," I says, once more, and tries to smile,"Come, that ain't your style,Here's a shilling, mother, for to-day I've made my pile!"
X
Yus, a dozen coppers, all my capital, it fled, sir,Representin' twelve bokays that cost me nothink each,Twelve bokays o' corn-flowers blue that grew beside my bed, sir,That same day, at sunrise, when the sky was like a peach:Easy as a poet's dreams they blossomed round my head, sir,All I had to do was just to lift my hand and reach:So, upon the roaring waves I cast my blooming bread, sir,Bread I'd earned with nose-gays on the bare-foot Brighton beach,Nose-gaysanda speech,All about the bright blue eyes they matched on Brighton beach.
XI
Still, you've only got to hear the bankers on the budget,Then you'll know the giving game is hardly "high finance";Which no more it wasn't for that poor old dame to trudge it,Tick, tack, tick, tack, on such a devil's dance:Crumbs, it took me quite aback to see her stop so humble,Casting up into my face a sort of shiny glance,Bless you, bless you, that was what I thought I heard her mumble;Lord, a prayer for poor old Bill, a rummy sort of chance!Crumbs, that shiny glanceKinder made me king of all the sky from here to France.
XII
Tick, tack, tick, tack, but now she toddled faster:Soon she'd reach the little twisted by-way through the wheat."Look 'ee here," I says, "young woman, don't you court disaster!Peepin' through yon poppies there's a cottage trim and neatWhite as chalk and sweet as turf: wot price a bed for sorrow,Sprigs of lavender between the pillow and the sheet?""No," she says, "I've got to get to Piddinghoe to-morrow!P'raps they'd tell the work'us! And I've lashings here to eat:Don't the gorse smell sweet?"...Well, I turned and left her plodding on beside the wheat.
XIII
Every cent I'd given her like a hero in a story;Yet, alone with leagues of wheat I seemed to grow awareSolomon himself, arrayed in all his golden glory,Couldn't vie with Me, the corn-flower king, the millionaire!How to cash those bright blue cheques that night? My trouser pocketsJingled sudden! Six more pennies, crept from James knew where!Crumbs! I hurried back with eyes just bulging from their sockets,Pushed 'em in the old dame's fist and listened for the prayer,Shamming not to care,Bill—the blarsted chicken-thief, the corn-flower millionaire.
XIV
Tick, tack, tick, tack, and faster yet she clattered!Ay, she'd almost gained a yard! I left her once again.Feeling very warm inside and sort of 'ighly flattered,On I plodded, all alone, with hay-stacks in my brain.Suddenly, withchink—chink—chink, the old sweet jingleStartled me!'Twas thruppence more! Three coppers round and plain!Lord, temptation struck me and I felt my gullet tingle.Then—I hurried back, beside them seas of golden grain:No, I can't explain;There I thrust 'em in her fist, and left her once again.
XV
Tinkle-chink!Three ha'pence! If the vulgar fractions followed,Big fleas have little fleas! It flashed upon me there,—Like the snakes of Pharaoh which the snakes of Moses swallowedAll the world was playing at the tortoise and the hare:Half the smallest atom is—my soul was getting tipsy—Heaven is one big circle and the centre's everywhere,Yus, and that old woman was an angel and a gipsy,Yus, and Bill, the chicken-thief, the corn-flower millionaire,Shamming not to care,What was he? A seraph on the misty rainbow-stair!
XVI
Don't you make no doubt of it! The deeper that you look, sir,All your ancient poets tell you just the same as me,—What about old Ovid and his most indecent book, sir,Morphosizing females into flower and star and tree?What about old Proteus and his 'ighly curious 'abits,Mixing of his old grey beard into the old grey sea?What about old Darwin and the hat that brought forth rabbits,Mud and slime that growed into the pomp of Ninevey?What if there should beOne great Power beneath it all, one God in you and me?
XVII
Anyway, it seemed to me I'd struck the world's pump-handle!"Back with that three ha'pence, Bill," I mutters, "or you're lost."Back I hurries thro' the dusk where, shining like a candle,Pale before the sunset stood that fairy finger-post.Sir, she wasn't there!I'd struck the place where all roads crost,All the roads in all the world.She couldn't yet have trottedEven to the ... Hist! a stealthy step behind? A ghost?Swish! A flying noose had caught me round the neck! Garotted!Back I staggered, clutching at the moonbeams, yus, almostThrottled! Sir, I boastBill is tough, but ... when it comes to throttling by a ghost!
* * * *
XVIII
Winged like a butterfly, tall and slenderOut It steps with the rope on its arm."Crumbs," I says, "all right! I surrender!When have I crossed you or done you harm?Efyou're a sperrit," I says, "O, crikey,Efyou're a sperrit, get hence, vamoose!"Sweet as music, she spoke—"I'm Psyche!"—Choking me still with her silken noose.
XIX
Straight at the word from the ferns and blossomsFretting the moon-rise over the downs,Little blue wings and little white bosoms,Little white faces with golden crownsPeeped, and the colours came twinkling round me,Laughed, and the turf grew purple with thyme,Danced, and the sweet crushed scents nigh drowned me,Sang, and the hare-bells rang in chime.
XX
All around me, gliding and gleaming,Fair as a fallen sunset-sky,Butterfly wings came drifting, dreaming,Clouds of the little folk clustered nigh,Little white hands like pearls upliftedCords of silk in shimmering skeins,Cast them about me and dreamily driftedWinding me round with their soft warm chains.
XXI
Round and round me they dizzily floated,Binding me faster with every turn:Crumbs, my pals would have grinned and gloatedWatching me over that fringe of fern,Bill, with his battered old hat outstandingBlack as a foam-swept rock to the moon,Bill, like a rainbow of silks expandingInto a beautiful big cocoon,—
XXII
Big as a cloud, though his hat still crowned him,Yus, and his old boots bulged below:Seas of colour went shimmering round him,Dancing, glimmering, glancing a-glow!Bill knew well what them elves were at, sir,—Ain't you an en-to-mol-o-gist?Well, despite of his old black hat, sir,Bill wasbecoming—a chrysalist.
* * * *
XXIII
Muffled, smothered in a sea of emerald and opal,Down a dazzling gulf of dreams I sank and sank away,Wound about with twenty thousand yards of silken rope, allShimmering into crimson, glimmering into grey,Drowsing, waking, living, dying, just as you regards it,Buried in a sunset-cloud, or cloud of breaking day,'Cording as from East or West yourself might look towards it,Losing, gaining, lost in darkness, ragged, grimy, gay,'And-cuffed, not to sayGagged, but both my shoulders budding, sprouting white as May.
XXIV
Sprouting like the milky buds o' hawthorn in the night-time,Pouting like the snowy buds o' roses in July,Spreading in my chrysalist and waiting for the right time,When—I thought—they'd bust to wings and Bill would rise and fly,Tick, tack, tick, tack, as if it came in answer,Sweeping o'er my head again the tide o' dreams went by,—I must get to Piddinghoe to-morrow if I can, sir,Tick, tack, a crackle in my chrysalist, a cry!Then the warm blue skyBust the shell, and out crept Bill—a blooming butterfly!
* * * *
XXV
Blue as a corn-flower, blazed the zenith: the deepening East like a scarlet poppyBurned while, dazzled with golden bloom, white clouds like daisies, green seas like wheat,Gripping the sign-post, first, I climbs, to sun my wings, which were wrinkled and floppy,Spreading 'em white o'er the wordsNo Road, and hanging fast by my six black feet.
XXVI
Still on my head was the battered old beaver, but through it my clubbed antennæ slanted,("Feelers" yourself would probably call 'em) my battered old boots were hardly seenUnder the golden fluff of the tail! It was Bill, sir, Bill, though highly enchanted,Spreading his beautiful snow-white pinions, tipped with orange, and veined with green.
XXVII
Yus, old Bill was an Orange-tip, a spirit in glory, a blooming Psyche!New, it was new from East to West this rummy old world that I dreamed I knew,How can I tell you the things that I saw with my—what shallIcall 'em?—"feelers?"—O, crikey,"Feelers?" You know how the man born blind described such colours as scarlet or blue.
XXVIII
"Scarlet," he says, "is the sound of a trumpet, blue is a flute," for he hasn't a notion!No, nor nobody living on earth can tell it him plain, if he hasn't the sight!That's how it stands with ragged old Bill, a-drift and a-dream on a measureless ocean,Gifted wi' fifteen new-born senses, and seeing you blind to their new strange light.
XXIX
How can I tell you? Sir, you must wait, till you die like Bill, ere you understand it!Only—I saw—the same as a bee that strikes to his hive ten leagues away—Straight as a die, while I winked and blinked on that sun-warmed wood and my wings expanded(Whistler drawings that men call wings)—I saw—and I flew—that's all I can say.
XXX
Flew over leagues of whispering wonder, fairy forests and flowery palaces,Love-lorn casements, delicate kingdoms, beautiful flaming thoughts of—Him;Feasts of a million blue-mailed angels lifting their honey-and-wine-brimmed chalices,Throned upon clouds—(which you'd call white clover) down to the world's most rosiest rim.
XXXI
New and new and new and new, the white o' the cliffs and the wind in the heather,Yus, and the sea-gulls flying like flakes of the sea that flashed to the new-born day,Song, song, song, song, quivering up in the wild blue weather,Thousands of seraphim singing together, and me just flying and—knowing my way.
XXXII
Straight as a die to Piddinghoe's dolphin, and there I drops in a cottage garden,There, on a sun-warmed window-sill, I winks and peeps, for the window was wide!Crumbs, he was there and fast in her arms and a-begging his poor old mother's pardon,There with his lips on her old grey hair, and her head on his breast while she laughed and cried,—
XXXIII
"One and nine-pence that old tramp gave me, or else I should never have reached you, sonny,Never, and you just leaving the village to-day and meaning to cross the sea,One and nine-pence he gave me, I paid for the farmer's lift with half o' the money!Here's the ten-pence halfpenny, sonny, 'twill pay for our little 'ouse-warming tea."
* * * *
XXXIV
Tick, tack, tick, tack, out into the gardenToddles that old Fairy with his arm about her—so,Cuddling of her still, and still a-begging of her pardon,While she says "I wish the corn-flower king could only know!Bless him, bless him, once again," she says and softly gazesUp to heaven, a-smiling in her mutch as white as snow,All among her gilly-flowers and stocks and double daisies,Mignonette, forget-me-not,... Twenty years ago,All a rosy glow,This is how it was, she said,Twenty years ago.
* * * *
XXXV
Once again I seemed to wake, the vision it had fled, sir,There I lay upon the downs: the sky was like a peach;Yus, with twelve bokays of corn-flowers blue beside my bed, sir,More than usual 'andsome, so they'd bring me two-pence each.Easy as a poet's dreams they blossomed round my head, sir,All I had to do was just to lift my hand and reach,Tie 'em with a bit of string, and earn my blooming bread, sir,Selling little nose-gays on the bare-foot Brighton beach,Nose-gaysanda speech,All about the bright blue eyes they matched on Brighton beach.
XXXVI
Overhead the singing lark and underfoot the heather,Far and blue in front of us the unplumbed sky,Me and stick and bundle, O, we jogs along together,(Changeable the weather? Well, it ain't all pie!)Weather's like a woman, sir, and if she wants to quarrel,If her eyes begin to flash and hair begins to fly,You've to wait a little, then—the story has a moral—Ain't the sunny kisses all the sweeter by and bye?—(Crumbs, it's 'ot and dry!Thank you, sir! Thank you, sir!) the sweeter by and bye.
XXXVII
So the world's my sweetheart and I sort of want to squeeze 'er.Toffs 'ull get no chance of heaven, take 'em in the lump!Never laid in hay-fields when the dawn came over-sea, sir?Guess it's true that story 'bout the needle and the hump!Never crept into a stack because the wind was blowing,Hollered out a nest and closed the door-way with a clump,Laid and heard the whisper of the silence, growing, growing,Watched a thousand wheeling stars and wondered if they'd bump?What I say would stumpJoshua! But I've done it, sir. Don't think I'm off my chump.
XXXVIII
If you try and lay, sir, with your face turned up to wonder,Up to twenty million miles of stars that roll like one,Right across to God knows where, and you just huddled underLike a little beetle with no business of his own,There you'd hear—like growing grass—a funny silent sound, sir,Mixed with curious crackles in a steady undertone,Just the sound of twenty billion stars a-going round, sir,Yus, and you beneath 'em like a wise old ant, alone,Ant upon a stone,Waving of his antlers, on the Sussex downs, alone.