Theytold me Pan was dead, but IOft marvelled who it was that sangDown the green valleys languidlyWhere the grey elder-thickets hang.Sometimes I thought it was a birdMy soul had charged with sorcery;Sometimes it seemed my own heart heardInland the sorrow of the sea.But even where the primrose setsThe seal of her pale loveliness,I found amid the violetsTears of an antique bitterness.
Theytold me Pan was dead, but IOft marvelled who it was that sangDown the green valleys languidlyWhere the grey elder-thickets hang.Sometimes I thought it was a birdMy soul had charged with sorcery;Sometimes it seemed my own heart heardInland the sorrow of the sea.But even where the primrose setsThe seal of her pale loveliness,I found amid the violetsTears of an antique bitterness.
Theytold me Pan was dead, but IOft marvelled who it was that sangDown the green valleys languidlyWhere the grey elder-thickets hang.
Sometimes I thought it was a birdMy soul had charged with sorcery;Sometimes it seemed my own heart heardInland the sorrow of the sea.
But even where the primrose setsThe seal of her pale loveliness,I found amid the violetsTears of an antique bitterness.
To contents
Speaknot—whisper not;Here bloweth thyme and bergamot;Softly on the evening hour,Secret herbs their spices shower.Dark-spiked rosemary and myrrh,Lean-stalked, purple lavender;Hides within her bosom, too,All her sorrows, bitter rue.Breathe not—trespass not;Of this green and darkling spot,Latticed from the moon's beams,Perchance a distant dreamer dreams;Perchance upon its darkening air,The unseen ghosts of children fare,Faintly swinging, sway and sweep,Like lovely sea-flowers in its deep;While, unmoved, to watch and ward,Amid its gloomed and daisied sward,Stands with bowed and dewy headThat one little leaden Lad.
Speaknot—whisper not;Here bloweth thyme and bergamot;Softly on the evening hour,Secret herbs their spices shower.Dark-spiked rosemary and myrrh,Lean-stalked, purple lavender;Hides within her bosom, too,All her sorrows, bitter rue.Breathe not—trespass not;Of this green and darkling spot,Latticed from the moon's beams,Perchance a distant dreamer dreams;Perchance upon its darkening air,The unseen ghosts of children fare,Faintly swinging, sway and sweep,Like lovely sea-flowers in its deep;While, unmoved, to watch and ward,Amid its gloomed and daisied sward,Stands with bowed and dewy headThat one little leaden Lad.
Speaknot—whisper not;Here bloweth thyme and bergamot;Softly on the evening hour,Secret herbs their spices shower.Dark-spiked rosemary and myrrh,Lean-stalked, purple lavender;Hides within her bosom, too,All her sorrows, bitter rue.Breathe not—trespass not;Of this green and darkling spot,Latticed from the moon's beams,Perchance a distant dreamer dreams;Perchance upon its darkening air,The unseen ghosts of children fare,Faintly swinging, sway and sweep,Like lovely sea-flowers in its deep;While, unmoved, to watch and ward,Amid its gloomed and daisied sward,Stands with bowed and dewy headThat one little leaden Lad.
To contents
Nobreath of wind,No gleam of sun—Still the white snowSwirls softly down—Twig and boughAnd blade and thornAll in an icyQuiet, forlorn.Whispering, nestling,Through the air,On sill and stone,Roof—everywhere,It heaps its powderyCrystal flakes,Of every treeA mountain makes:Till pale and faintAt shut of day,Stoops from the WestOne wintry ray.Then, feathered in fire,Where ghosts the moon,A robin shrillsHis lonely tune;And from her dark-gnarledYew-tree lairFlits she who had beenIn hiding there.
Nobreath of wind,No gleam of sun—Still the white snowSwirls softly down—Twig and boughAnd blade and thornAll in an icyQuiet, forlorn.Whispering, nestling,Through the air,On sill and stone,Roof—everywhere,It heaps its powderyCrystal flakes,Of every treeA mountain makes:Till pale and faintAt shut of day,Stoops from the WestOne wintry ray.Then, feathered in fire,Where ghosts the moon,A robin shrillsHis lonely tune;And from her dark-gnarledYew-tree lairFlits she who had beenIn hiding there.
Nobreath of wind,No gleam of sun—Still the white snowSwirls softly down—Twig and boughAnd blade and thornAll in an icyQuiet, forlorn.Whispering, nestling,Through the air,On sill and stone,Roof—everywhere,It heaps its powderyCrystal flakes,Of every treeA mountain makes:Till pale and faintAt shut of day,Stoops from the WestOne wintry ray.Then, feathered in fire,Where ghosts the moon,A robin shrillsHis lonely tune;And from her dark-gnarledYew-tree lairFlits she who had beenIn hiding there.
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Now, through the duskWith muffled bellThe Dustman comesThe World to tell,Night's elfin lanternsBurn and gleamIn the twilight, wonderfulWorld of Dream.Hollow and dimSleep's boat doth ride,Heavily stillAt the waterside.Patter, patter,The children come,Yawning and sleepy,Out of the gloom.Like droning beesIn a garden green,Over the thwartsThey clamber in.And lovely SleepWith long-drawn oarTurns awayFrom the whispering shore.Over the waterLike roses glideHer hundreds of passengersPacked inside,To where in her gardenTremble and gleamThe harps and lampsOf the World of Dream.
Now, through the duskWith muffled bellThe Dustman comesThe World to tell,Night's elfin lanternsBurn and gleamIn the twilight, wonderfulWorld of Dream.Hollow and dimSleep's boat doth ride,Heavily stillAt the waterside.Patter, patter,The children come,Yawning and sleepy,Out of the gloom.Like droning beesIn a garden green,Over the thwartsThey clamber in.And lovely SleepWith long-drawn oarTurns awayFrom the whispering shore.Over the waterLike roses glideHer hundreds of passengersPacked inside,To where in her gardenTremble and gleamThe harps and lampsOf the World of Dream.
Now, through the duskWith muffled bellThe Dustman comesThe World to tell,Night's elfin lanternsBurn and gleamIn the twilight, wonderfulWorld of Dream.
Hollow and dimSleep's boat doth ride,Heavily stillAt the waterside.Patter, patter,The children come,Yawning and sleepy,Out of the gloom.
Like droning beesIn a garden green,Over the thwartsThey clamber in.And lovely SleepWith long-drawn oarTurns awayFrom the whispering shore.
Over the waterLike roses glideHer hundreds of passengersPacked inside,To where in her gardenTremble and gleamThe harps and lampsOf the World of Dream.
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WhenQueen Djenira slumbers throughThe sultry noon's repose,From out her dreams, as soft she lies,A faint thin music flows.Her lovely hands lie narrow and paleWith gilded nails, her headCouched in its banded nets of goldLies pillowed on her bed.The little Nubian boys who fanHer cheeks and tresses clear,Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful voicesSeem afar to hear.They slide their eyes, and nodding, say,"Queen Djenira walks to-dayThe courts of the lord PthamasarWhere the sweet birds of Psuthys are."And those of earth about her porchOf shadow cool and greyTheir sidelong beaks in silence lean,And silent flit away.
WhenQueen Djenira slumbers throughThe sultry noon's repose,From out her dreams, as soft she lies,A faint thin music flows.Her lovely hands lie narrow and paleWith gilded nails, her headCouched in its banded nets of goldLies pillowed on her bed.The little Nubian boys who fanHer cheeks and tresses clear,Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful voicesSeem afar to hear.They slide their eyes, and nodding, say,"Queen Djenira walks to-dayThe courts of the lord PthamasarWhere the sweet birds of Psuthys are."And those of earth about her porchOf shadow cool and greyTheir sidelong beaks in silence lean,And silent flit away.
WhenQueen Djenira slumbers throughThe sultry noon's repose,From out her dreams, as soft she lies,A faint thin music flows.
Her lovely hands lie narrow and paleWith gilded nails, her headCouched in its banded nets of goldLies pillowed on her bed.
The little Nubian boys who fanHer cheeks and tresses clear,Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful voicesSeem afar to hear.
They slide their eyes, and nodding, say,"Queen Djenira walks to-dayThe courts of the lord PthamasarWhere the sweet birds of Psuthys are."
And those of earth about her porchOf shadow cool and greyTheir sidelong beaks in silence lean,And silent flit away.
Thelast light fails—that shallow pool of day!The coursers of the dark stamp down to drink,Arch their wild necks, lift their wild heads and neigh;Their drivers, gathering at the water-brink,With eyes ashine from out their clustering hair,Utter their hollow speech, or gaze afar,Rapt in irradiant reverie, to whereLanguishes, lost in light, the evening star.Come the wood-nymphs to dance within the glooms,Calling these charioteers with timbrels' din;Ashen with twilight the dark forest loomsO'er the nocturnal beasts that prowl within"O glory of beauty which the world makes fair!"Pant they their serenading on the air.Sound the loud hooves, and all abroad the skyThe lusty charioteers their stations take;Planet to planet do the sweet Loves fly,And in the zenith silver music wake.Cities of men, in blindness hidden low,Fume their faint flames to that arched firmament,But all the dwellers in the lonely knowThe unearthly are abroad, and weary and spent,With rush extinguished, to their dreaming go.And world and night and star-enclustered spaceThe glory of beauty are in one enravished face.
Thelast light fails—that shallow pool of day!The coursers of the dark stamp down to drink,Arch their wild necks, lift their wild heads and neigh;Their drivers, gathering at the water-brink,With eyes ashine from out their clustering hair,Utter their hollow speech, or gaze afar,Rapt in irradiant reverie, to whereLanguishes, lost in light, the evening star.Come the wood-nymphs to dance within the glooms,Calling these charioteers with timbrels' din;Ashen with twilight the dark forest loomsO'er the nocturnal beasts that prowl within"O glory of beauty which the world makes fair!"Pant they their serenading on the air.Sound the loud hooves, and all abroad the skyThe lusty charioteers their stations take;Planet to planet do the sweet Loves fly,And in the zenith silver music wake.Cities of men, in blindness hidden low,Fume their faint flames to that arched firmament,But all the dwellers in the lonely knowThe unearthly are abroad, and weary and spent,With rush extinguished, to their dreaming go.And world and night and star-enclustered spaceThe glory of beauty are in one enravished face.
Thelast light fails—that shallow pool of day!The coursers of the dark stamp down to drink,Arch their wild necks, lift their wild heads and neigh;Their drivers, gathering at the water-brink,With eyes ashine from out their clustering hair,Utter their hollow speech, or gaze afar,Rapt in irradiant reverie, to whereLanguishes, lost in light, the evening star.
Come the wood-nymphs to dance within the glooms,Calling these charioteers with timbrels' din;Ashen with twilight the dark forest loomsO'er the nocturnal beasts that prowl within"O glory of beauty which the world makes fair!"Pant they their serenading on the air.
Sound the loud hooves, and all abroad the skyThe lusty charioteers their stations take;Planet to planet do the sweet Loves fly,And in the zenith silver music wake.Cities of men, in blindness hidden low,Fume their faint flames to that arched firmament,But all the dwellers in the lonely knowThe unearthly are abroad, and weary and spent,With rush extinguished, to their dreaming go.And world and night and star-enclustered spaceThe glory of beauty are in one enravished face.
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Theold, old King of CumberlandAwoke with bristling beard—Crouched listening in the darknessTo a sound that he had heard.He leaned upon his foursquare bed,His thumb beneath his chin;Hearkening after that which had stirredThe dream that he was in.The old, old King of CumberlandMuttered, "Twas not the sea,Gushing upon Shlievlisskin rocks,That wakened me."Thunder from midmost night it was not;For yonder at the barsBurn to their summer setting herClear constellated stars."The old, old King of CumberlandMused yet, "Rats ever didRove from their holes, and clink my spurs,And gnaw my coverlid."Oft hath a little passing breezeAlong this valance stirred;But in this stagnant calm 'twas notThe wind I heard."Some keener, stranger, quieter, closerVoice it was me woke...."And silence, like a billow, drownedThe word he spoke.His chamber walls were cloaked with dark;Shadow did thickly brood,And in the vague, all-listening nightA presence stood....Sudden a gigantic hand he thrustInto his bosom cold,Where now no surging restless beatIts long tale told:Swept on him then, as there he sate,Terror icy chill;'Twas silence that had him awoke—His heart stood still.
Theold, old King of CumberlandAwoke with bristling beard—Crouched listening in the darknessTo a sound that he had heard.He leaned upon his foursquare bed,His thumb beneath his chin;Hearkening after that which had stirredThe dream that he was in.The old, old King of CumberlandMuttered, "Twas not the sea,Gushing upon Shlievlisskin rocks,That wakened me."Thunder from midmost night it was not;For yonder at the barsBurn to their summer setting herClear constellated stars."The old, old King of CumberlandMused yet, "Rats ever didRove from their holes, and clink my spurs,And gnaw my coverlid."Oft hath a little passing breezeAlong this valance stirred;But in this stagnant calm 'twas notThe wind I heard."Some keener, stranger, quieter, closerVoice it was me woke...."And silence, like a billow, drownedThe word he spoke.His chamber walls were cloaked with dark;Shadow did thickly brood,And in the vague, all-listening nightA presence stood....Sudden a gigantic hand he thrustInto his bosom cold,Where now no surging restless beatIts long tale told:Swept on him then, as there he sate,Terror icy chill;'Twas silence that had him awoke—His heart stood still.
Theold, old King of CumberlandAwoke with bristling beard—Crouched listening in the darknessTo a sound that he had heard.
He leaned upon his foursquare bed,His thumb beneath his chin;Hearkening after that which had stirredThe dream that he was in.
The old, old King of CumberlandMuttered, "Twas not the sea,Gushing upon Shlievlisskin rocks,That wakened me.
"Thunder from midmost night it was not;For yonder at the barsBurn to their summer setting herClear constellated stars."
The old, old King of CumberlandMused yet, "Rats ever didRove from their holes, and clink my spurs,And gnaw my coverlid.
"Oft hath a little passing breezeAlong this valance stirred;But in this stagnant calm 'twas notThe wind I heard.
"Some keener, stranger, quieter, closerVoice it was me woke...."And silence, like a billow, drownedThe word he spoke.
His chamber walls were cloaked with dark;Shadow did thickly brood,And in the vague, all-listening nightA presence stood....
Sudden a gigantic hand he thrustInto his bosom cold,Where now no surging restless beatIts long tale told:
Swept on him then, as there he sate,Terror icy chill;'Twas silence that had him awoke—His heart stood still.
To contents
Someone is always sitting there,In the little green orchard;Even when the sun is highIn noon's unclouded sky,And faintly droning goesThe bee from rose to rose,Some one in shadow is sitting there,In the little green orchard.Yes, and when twilight is falling softlyIn the little green orchard;When the grey dew distilsAnd every flower-cup fills;When the last blackbird says,"What—what!" and goes her way—s-sh!I have heard voices calling softlyIn the little green orchard.Not that I am afraid of being there,In the little green orchard;Why, when the moon's been bright,Shedding her lonesome light,And moths like ghosties come,And the horned snail leaves home:I've sat there, whispering and listening there,In the little green orchard.Only it's strange to be feeling there,In the little green orchard;Whether you paint or draw,Dig, hammer, chop, or saw;When you are most alone,All but the silence gone ...Some one is waiting and watching there,In the little green orchard.
Someone is always sitting there,In the little green orchard;Even when the sun is highIn noon's unclouded sky,And faintly droning goesThe bee from rose to rose,Some one in shadow is sitting there,In the little green orchard.Yes, and when twilight is falling softlyIn the little green orchard;When the grey dew distilsAnd every flower-cup fills;When the last blackbird says,"What—what!" and goes her way—s-sh!I have heard voices calling softlyIn the little green orchard.Not that I am afraid of being there,In the little green orchard;Why, when the moon's been bright,Shedding her lonesome light,And moths like ghosties come,And the horned snail leaves home:I've sat there, whispering and listening there,In the little green orchard.Only it's strange to be feeling there,In the little green orchard;Whether you paint or draw,Dig, hammer, chop, or saw;When you are most alone,All but the silence gone ...Some one is waiting and watching there,In the little green orchard.
Someone is always sitting there,In the little green orchard;Even when the sun is highIn noon's unclouded sky,And faintly droning goesThe bee from rose to rose,Some one in shadow is sitting there,In the little green orchard.
Yes, and when twilight is falling softlyIn the little green orchard;When the grey dew distilsAnd every flower-cup fills;When the last blackbird says,"What—what!" and goes her way—s-sh!I have heard voices calling softlyIn the little green orchard.
Not that I am afraid of being there,In the little green orchard;Why, when the moon's been bright,Shedding her lonesome light,And moths like ghosties come,And the horned snail leaves home:I've sat there, whispering and listening there,In the little green orchard.
Only it's strange to be feeling there,In the little green orchard;Whether you paint or draw,Dig, hammer, chop, or saw;When you are most alone,All but the silence gone ...Some one is waiting and watching there,In the little green orchard.
To contents
Eremy heart beats too coldly and faintlyTo remember sad things, yet be gay,I would sing a brief song of the world's little childrenMagic hath stolen away.The primroses scattered by April,The stars of the wide Milky Way,Cannot outnumber the hosts of the childrenMagic hath stolen away.The buttercup green of the meadows,The snow of the blossoming may,Lovelier are not than the legions of childrenMagic hath stolen away.The waves tossing surf in the moonbeam,The albatross lone on the spray,Alone know the tears wept in vain for the childrenMagic hath stolen away.In vain: for at hush of the eveningWhen the stars twinkle into the grey,Seems to echo the far-away calling of childrenMagic hath stolen away.
Eremy heart beats too coldly and faintlyTo remember sad things, yet be gay,I would sing a brief song of the world's little childrenMagic hath stolen away.The primroses scattered by April,The stars of the wide Milky Way,Cannot outnumber the hosts of the childrenMagic hath stolen away.The buttercup green of the meadows,The snow of the blossoming may,Lovelier are not than the legions of childrenMagic hath stolen away.The waves tossing surf in the moonbeam,The albatross lone on the spray,Alone know the tears wept in vain for the childrenMagic hath stolen away.In vain: for at hush of the eveningWhen the stars twinkle into the grey,Seems to echo the far-away calling of childrenMagic hath stolen away.
Eremy heart beats too coldly and faintlyTo remember sad things, yet be gay,I would sing a brief song of the world's little childrenMagic hath stolen away.
The primroses scattered by April,The stars of the wide Milky Way,Cannot outnumber the hosts of the childrenMagic hath stolen away.
The buttercup green of the meadows,The snow of the blossoming may,Lovelier are not than the legions of childrenMagic hath stolen away.
The waves tossing surf in the moonbeam,The albatross lone on the spray,Alone know the tears wept in vain for the childrenMagic hath stolen away.
In vain: for at hush of the eveningWhen the stars twinkle into the grey,Seems to echo the far-away calling of childrenMagic hath stolen away.
To contents
WhenI go free,I think 'twill beA night of stars and snow,And the wild fires of frost shall lightMy footsteps as I go;Nobody—nobody will be thereWith groping touch, or sight,To see me in my bush of hairDance burning through the night.
WhenI go free,I think 'twill beA night of stars and snow,And the wild fires of frost shall lightMy footsteps as I go;Nobody—nobody will be thereWith groping touch, or sight,To see me in my bush of hairDance burning through the night.
WhenI go free,I think 'twill beA night of stars and snow,And the wild fires of frost shall lightMy footsteps as I go;Nobody—nobody will be thereWith groping touch, or sight,To see me in my bush of hairDance burning through the night.
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Whois it calling by the darkened riverWhere the moss lies smooth and deep,And the dark trees lean unmoving arms,Silent and vague in sleep,And the bright-heeled constellations passIn splendour through the gloom;Who is it calling o'er the darkened riverIn music, "Come!"?Who is it wandering in the summer meadowsWhere the children stoop and playIn the green faint-scented flowers, spinningThe guileless hours away?Who touches their bright hair? who putsA wind-shell to each cheek,Whispering betwixt its breathing silences,"Seek! seek!"?Who is it watching in the gathering twilightWhen the curfew bird hath flownOn eager wings, from song to silence,To its darkened nest alone?Who takes for brightening eyes the stars,For locks the still moonbeam,Sighs through the dews of evening peacefullyFalling, "Dream!"
Whois it calling by the darkened riverWhere the moss lies smooth and deep,And the dark trees lean unmoving arms,Silent and vague in sleep,And the bright-heeled constellations passIn splendour through the gloom;Who is it calling o'er the darkened riverIn music, "Come!"?Who is it wandering in the summer meadowsWhere the children stoop and playIn the green faint-scented flowers, spinningThe guileless hours away?Who touches their bright hair? who putsA wind-shell to each cheek,Whispering betwixt its breathing silences,"Seek! seek!"?Who is it watching in the gathering twilightWhen the curfew bird hath flownOn eager wings, from song to silence,To its darkened nest alone?Who takes for brightening eyes the stars,For locks the still moonbeam,Sighs through the dews of evening peacefullyFalling, "Dream!"
Whois it calling by the darkened riverWhere the moss lies smooth and deep,And the dark trees lean unmoving arms,Silent and vague in sleep,And the bright-heeled constellations passIn splendour through the gloom;Who is it calling o'er the darkened riverIn music, "Come!"?
Who is it wandering in the summer meadowsWhere the children stoop and playIn the green faint-scented flowers, spinningThe guileless hours away?Who touches their bright hair? who putsA wind-shell to each cheek,Whispering betwixt its breathing silences,"Seek! seek!"?
Who is it watching in the gathering twilightWhen the curfew bird hath flownOn eager wings, from song to silence,To its darkened nest alone?Who takes for brightening eyes the stars,For locks the still moonbeam,Sighs through the dews of evening peacefullyFalling, "Dream!"
To contents
"Whatvoice is that I hearCrying across the pool?""It is the voice of Pan you hear,Crying his sorceries shrill and clear,In the twilight dim and cool.""What song is it he sings,Echoing from afar;While the sweet swallow bends her wings,Filling the air with twitterings,Beneath the brightening star?"The woodman answered me,His faggot on his back:—"Seek not the face of Pan to see;Flee from his clear note summoning theeTo darkness deep and black!"He dwells in thickest shade,Piping his notes forlornOf sorrow never to be allayed;Turn from his coverts sadOf twilight unto morn!"The woodman passed awayAlong the forest path;His ax shone keen and greyIn the last beams of day:And all was still as death:—Only Pan singing sweetOut of Earth's fragrant shade;I dreamed his eyes to meet,And found but shadow laidBefore my tired feet.Comes no more dawn to me,Nor bird of open skies.Only his woods' deep gloom I seeTill, at the end of all, shall rise,Afar and tranquilly,Death's stretching sea.
"Whatvoice is that I hearCrying across the pool?""It is the voice of Pan you hear,Crying his sorceries shrill and clear,In the twilight dim and cool.""What song is it he sings,Echoing from afar;While the sweet swallow bends her wings,Filling the air with twitterings,Beneath the brightening star?"The woodman answered me,His faggot on his back:—"Seek not the face of Pan to see;Flee from his clear note summoning theeTo darkness deep and black!"He dwells in thickest shade,Piping his notes forlornOf sorrow never to be allayed;Turn from his coverts sadOf twilight unto morn!"The woodman passed awayAlong the forest path;His ax shone keen and greyIn the last beams of day:And all was still as death:—Only Pan singing sweetOut of Earth's fragrant shade;I dreamed his eyes to meet,And found but shadow laidBefore my tired feet.Comes no more dawn to me,Nor bird of open skies.Only his woods' deep gloom I seeTill, at the end of all, shall rise,Afar and tranquilly,Death's stretching sea.
"Whatvoice is that I hearCrying across the pool?""It is the voice of Pan you hear,Crying his sorceries shrill and clear,In the twilight dim and cool."
"What song is it he sings,Echoing from afar;While the sweet swallow bends her wings,Filling the air with twitterings,Beneath the brightening star?"
The woodman answered me,His faggot on his back:—"Seek not the face of Pan to see;Flee from his clear note summoning theeTo darkness deep and black!
"He dwells in thickest shade,Piping his notes forlornOf sorrow never to be allayed;Turn from his coverts sadOf twilight unto morn!"
The woodman passed awayAlong the forest path;His ax shone keen and greyIn the last beams of day:And all was still as death:—
Only Pan singing sweetOut of Earth's fragrant shade;I dreamed his eyes to meet,And found but shadow laidBefore my tired feet.
Comes no more dawn to me,Nor bird of open skies.Only his woods' deep gloom I seeTill, at the end of all, shall rise,Afar and tranquilly,Death's stretching sea.
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Threeand thirty birds there stoodIn an elder in a wood;Called Melmillo—flew off three,Leaving thirty in a tree;Called Melmillo—nine now gone,And the boughs held twenty-one;Called Melmillo—eighteenLeft but three to nod and preen;Called Melmillo—three—two—one—Now of birds were feathers none.Then stole slim Melmillo inTo that wood all dusk and green,And with lean long palms outspreadSoftly a strange dance did tread;Not a note of music sheHad for echoing company;All the birds were flown to restIn the hollow of her breast;In the wood thorn, elder, willow—Danced alone—lone danced Melmillo.
Threeand thirty birds there stoodIn an elder in a wood;Called Melmillo—flew off three,Leaving thirty in a tree;Called Melmillo—nine now gone,And the boughs held twenty-one;Called Melmillo—eighteenLeft but three to nod and preen;Called Melmillo—three—two—one—Now of birds were feathers none.Then stole slim Melmillo inTo that wood all dusk and green,And with lean long palms outspreadSoftly a strange dance did tread;Not a note of music sheHad for echoing company;All the birds were flown to restIn the hollow of her breast;In the wood thorn, elder, willow—Danced alone—lone danced Melmillo.
Threeand thirty birds there stoodIn an elder in a wood;Called Melmillo—flew off three,Leaving thirty in a tree;Called Melmillo—nine now gone,And the boughs held twenty-one;Called Melmillo—eighteenLeft but three to nod and preen;Called Melmillo—three—two—one—Now of birds were feathers none.
Then stole slim Melmillo inTo that wood all dusk and green,And with lean long palms outspreadSoftly a strange dance did tread;Not a note of music sheHad for echoing company;All the birds were flown to restIn the hollow of her breast;In the wood thorn, elder, willow—Danced alone—lone danced Melmillo.
To contents
Hearken!now the hermit beeDrones a quiet threnody;Greening on the stagnant poolThe criss-cross light is beautiful;In the venomed yew tree wingsPreen and flit. The linnet sings.Gradually the brave sunSinks to a day's journey done;In the marshy flats abideMists to muffle midnight-tide.Puffed within the belfry towerHungry owls drowse out their hour....Walk in beauty. Vaunt thy rose.Flaunt thy poisonous loveliness!Pace for pace with thee there goesA shape that hath not come to bless.I, thine enemy?... Nay, nay!I can only watch, and waitPatient treacherous time away,Hold ajar the wicket gate.
Hearken!now the hermit beeDrones a quiet threnody;Greening on the stagnant poolThe criss-cross light is beautiful;In the venomed yew tree wingsPreen and flit. The linnet sings.Gradually the brave sunSinks to a day's journey done;In the marshy flats abideMists to muffle midnight-tide.Puffed within the belfry towerHungry owls drowse out their hour....Walk in beauty. Vaunt thy rose.Flaunt thy poisonous loveliness!Pace for pace with thee there goesA shape that hath not come to bless.I, thine enemy?... Nay, nay!I can only watch, and waitPatient treacherous time away,Hold ajar the wicket gate.
Hearken!now the hermit beeDrones a quiet threnody;Greening on the stagnant poolThe criss-cross light is beautiful;In the venomed yew tree wingsPreen and flit. The linnet sings.
Gradually the brave sunSinks to a day's journey done;In the marshy flats abideMists to muffle midnight-tide.Puffed within the belfry towerHungry owls drowse out their hour....
Walk in beauty. Vaunt thy rose.Flaunt thy poisonous loveliness!Pace for pace with thee there goesA shape that hath not come to bless.I, thine enemy?... Nay, nay!I can only watch, and waitPatient treacherous time away,Hold ajar the wicket gate.
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Sittingunder the mistletoe(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),One last candle burning low,All the sleepy dancers gone,Just one candle burning on,Shadows lurking everywhere:Some one came, and kissed me there.Tired I was; my head would goNodding under the mistletoe(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),No footsteps came, no voice, but only,Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely,Stooped in the still and shadowy airLips unseen—and kissed me there.
Sittingunder the mistletoe(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),One last candle burning low,All the sleepy dancers gone,Just one candle burning on,Shadows lurking everywhere:Some one came, and kissed me there.Tired I was; my head would goNodding under the mistletoe(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),No footsteps came, no voice, but only,Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely,Stooped in the still and shadowy airLips unseen—and kissed me there.
Sittingunder the mistletoe(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),One last candle burning low,All the sleepy dancers gone,Just one candle burning on,Shadows lurking everywhere:Some one came, and kissed me there.
Tired I was; my head would goNodding under the mistletoe(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),No footsteps came, no voice, but only,Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely,Stooped in the still and shadowy airLips unseen—and kissed me there.
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AsI came out of Wiseman's Street,The air was thick with driving sleet;Crossing over Proudman's Square,Cold clouds and louring dulled the air;But as I turned to Goodman's Lane,The burning sun came out again;And on the roof of Children's RowIn solemn glory shone the snow.There did I lodge; there hope to die:Envying no man—no, not I.
AsI came out of Wiseman's Street,The air was thick with driving sleet;Crossing over Proudman's Square,Cold clouds and louring dulled the air;But as I turned to Goodman's Lane,The burning sun came out again;And on the roof of Children's RowIn solemn glory shone the snow.There did I lodge; there hope to die:Envying no man—no, not I.
AsI came out of Wiseman's Street,The air was thick with driving sleet;Crossing over Proudman's Square,Cold clouds and louring dulled the air;But as I turned to Goodman's Lane,The burning sun came out again;And on the roof of Children's RowIn solemn glory shone the snow.There did I lodge; there hope to die:Envying no man—no, not I.
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