CANTO I

DYMER

DYMERCANTO I

DYMER

1Youstranger, long before your glance can lightUpon these words, time will have washed awayThe moment when I first took pen to write,With all my road before me—yet to-day,Here, if at all, we meet; the unfashioned clayReady to both our hands; both hushed to seeThat which is nowhere yet come forth and be.2This moment, if you join me, we beginA partnership where both must toil to holdThe clue that I caught first. We lose or winTogether; if you read, you are enrolled.And first, a marvel—Who could have foretoldThat in the city which men called in scornThe Perfect City, Dymer could be born?3There you’d have thought the gods were smothered downForever, and the keys were turned on fate.No hour was left unchartered in that town,And love was in a schedule and the StateChose for eugenic reasons who should mateWith whom, and when. Each idle song and danceWas fixed by law and nothing left to chance.4For some of the last Platonists had foundedThat city of old. And mastery they madeAn island of what ought to be, surroundedBy this gross world of easier light and shade.All answering to the master’s dream they laidThe strong foundations, torturing into stoneEach bubble that the Academy had blown.5This people were so pure, so law-abiding,So logical, they made the heavens afraid:They sent the very swallows into hidingBy their appalling chastity dismayed:More soberly the lambs in springtime playedBecause of them: and ghosts dissolved in shameBefore their common-sense—till Dymer came.6At Dymer’s birth no comets scared the nation,The public crèche engulfed him with the rest,And twenty separate Boards of EducationClosed round him. He was passed through every test,Was vaccinated, numbered, washed and dressed,Proctored, inspected, whipt, examined weekly,And for some nineteen years he bore it meekly.7For nineteen years they worked upon his soul,Refining, chipping, moulding and adorning.Then came the moment that undid the whole—The ripple of rude life without a warning.It came in lecture-time one April morning—Alas for laws and locks, reproach and praise,Who ever learned to censor the spring days?8A little breeze came stirring to his cheek.He looked up to the window. A brown birdPerched on the sill, bent down to whet his beakWith darting head—Poor Dymer watched and stirredUneasily. The lecturer’s voice he heardStill droning from the dais. The narrow roomWas drowsy, over-solemn, filled with gloom.9He yawned, and a voluptuous lazinessTingled down all his spine and loosed his knees,Slow-drawn, like an invisible caress.He laughed—The lecturer stopped like one that seesA Ghost, then frowned and murmured, “Silence, please.”That moment saw the soul of Dymer hangIn the balance—Louder then his laughter rang.10The whole room watched with unbelieving awe,He rose and staggered rising. From his lipsBroke yet again the idiot-like guffaw.He felt the spirit in his finger-tips,Then swinging his right arm—a wide ellipseYet lazily—he struck the lecturer’s head.The old man tittered, lurched and dropt down dead.11Out of the silent room, out of the darkInto the sum-stream Dymer passed, and thereThe sudden breezes, the high hanging larkThe milk-white clouds sailing in polished air,Suddenly flashed about him like a blareOf trumpets. And no cry was raised behind him.His class sat dazed. They dared not go to find him.12Yet wonderfully some rumour spread abroad—An inarticulate sense of life renewingIn each young heart—He whistled down the road:Men said: “There’s Dymer”—“Why, what’s Dymer doing?”“I don’t know”—“Look, there’s Dymer,”—far pursuingWith troubled eyes—A long mysterious “Oh”Sighed from a hundred throats to see him go.13Down the white street and past the gate and forthBeyond the wall he came to grassy places.There was a shifting wind to West and NorthWith clouds in heeling squadron running races.The shadows following on the sunlight’s tracesCrossed the whole field and each wild flower within itWith change of wavering glories every minute.14There was a river, flushed with rains, betweenThe flat fields and a forest’s willowy edge.A sauntering pace he shuffled on the green,He kicked his boots against the crackly sedgeAnd tore his hands in many a furzy hedge.He saw his feet and ankles gilded roundWith buttercups that carpeted the ground.15He looked back then. The line of a low hillHad hid the city’s towers and domes from sight;He stopt: he felt a break of sunlight spillAround him sudden waves of searching light.Upon the earth was green, and gold, and whiteSmothering his feet. He felt his city dressAn insult to that April cheerfulness.16He said: “I’ve worn this dust heap long enough,Here goes!” And forthwith in the open fieldHe stripped away that prison of sad stuff:Socks, jacket, shirt and breeches off he peeledAnd rose up mother-naked with no shieldAgainst the sun: then stood awhile to playWith bare toes dabbling in cold river clay.17Forward again, and sometimes leaping highWith arms outspread as though he would embraceIn one act all the circle of the sky:Sometimes he rested in a leafier place,And crushed the wet, cool flowers against his face:And once he cried aloud, “Oh world, oh day,Let, let me,”—and then found no prayer to say.18Up furrows still unpierced with earliest cropHe marched. Through woods he strolled from flower to flower,And over hills. As ointment drop by dropPreciously meted out, so hour by hourThe day slipped through his hands: and now the powerFailed in his feet from walking. He was done,Hungry and cold. That moment sank the sun.19He lingered—Looking up, he saw aheadThe black and bristling frontage of a woodAnd over it the large sky swimming redFreckled with homeward crows. Surprised he stoodTo feel that wideness quenching his hot mood,Then shouted, “Trembling darkness, trembling green,What do you mean, wild wood, what do you mean?”20He shouted. But the solitude receivedHis noise into her noiselessness, his fireInto her calm. Perhaps he half believedSome answer yet would come to his desire.The hushed air quivered softly like a wireUpon his voice. It echoed, it was gone:The quiet and the quiet dark went on.21He rushed into the wood. He struck and stumbledOn hidden roots. He groped and scratched his face.The little birds woke chattering where he fumbled.The stray cat stood, paw lifted, in mid-chase.There is a windless calm in such a place.A sense of being indoors—so crowded standThe living trees, watching on every hand:22A sense of trespass—such as in the hallOf the wrong house, one time, to me befell.Groping between the hatstand and the wall—A clear voice from above me like a bell,The sweet voice of a woman asking “Well?”No more than this. And as I fled I wonderedInto whose alien story I had blundered.23A like thing fell to Dymer. Bending low,Feeling his way he went. The curtained airSighed into sound above his head, as thoughStringed instruments and horns were riding there.It passed and at its passing stirred his hair.He stood intent to hear. He heard againAnd checked his breath half-drawn, as if with pain.24That music could have crumbled proud beliefWith doubt, or in the bosom of the sageMadden the heart that had outmastered grief,And flood with tears the eyes of frozen ageAnd turn the young man’s feet to pilgrimage—So sharp it was, so sure a path it found,Soulward with stabbing wounds of bitter sound.25It died out on the middle of a note,As though it failed at the urge of its own meaning.It left him with life quivering at the throat,Limbs shaken and wet cheeks and body leaning,With strain towards the sound and senses gleaningThe last, least, ebbing ripple of the air,Searching the emptied darkness, muttering “Where?”26Then followed such a time as is forgottenWith morning light, but in the passing seemsUnending. Where he grasped the branch was rotten,Where he trod forth in haste the forest streamsLaid wait for him. Like men in fever dreamsClimbing an endless rope, he laboured muchAnd gained no ground. He reached and could not touch.27And often out of darkness like a swellThat grows up from no wind upon blue sea,He heard the music, unendurableIn stealing sweetness wind from tree to tree.Battered and bruised in body and soul was heWhen first he saw a little lightness growingAhead: and from that light the sound was flowing.28The trees were fewer now: and gladly nearingThat light, he saw the stars. For sky was there,And smoother grass, white flowered—a forest clearingSet in seven miles of forest, secreterThan valleys in the tops of clouds, more fairThan greenery under snow or desert waterOr the white peace descending after slaughter.29As some who have been wounded beyond healingWake, or half wake, once only and so blessFar off the lamplight travelling on the ceiling.A disk of pale light filled with peacefulnessAnd wonder if this is the C.C.S.,Or home, or heaven, or dreams—then sighing winWise, ignorant death before the pains begin:30So Dymer in the wood-lawn blessed the light,A still light, rosy, clear, and filled with sound.Here was some pile of building which the nightMade larger. Spiry shadows rose all round,But through the open door appeared profoundRecesses of pure light—fire with no flame—And out of that deep light the music came.31Tip-toes he slunk towards it where the grassWas twinkling in a lane of light beforeThe archway. There was neither fence to passNor word of challenge given, nor bolted door,But where it’s open, open evermore,No knocker and no porter and no guard,For very strangeness entering in grows hard.32Breathe not! Speak not! Walk gently. Someone’s here,Why have they left their house with the door so wide?There must be someone.... Dymer hung in fearUpon the threshold, longing and big-eyed.At last he squared his shoulders, smote his sideAnd called, “I’m here. Now let the feast begin.I’m coming now. I’m Dymer,” and went in.

Youstranger, long before your glance can lightUpon these words, time will have washed awayThe moment when I first took pen to write,With all my road before me—yet to-day,Here, if at all, we meet; the unfashioned clayReady to both our hands; both hushed to seeThat which is nowhere yet come forth and be.

Youstranger, long before your glance can light

Upon these words, time will have washed away

The moment when I first took pen to write,

With all my road before me—yet to-day,

Here, if at all, we meet; the unfashioned clay

Ready to both our hands; both hushed to see

That which is nowhere yet come forth and be.

This moment, if you join me, we beginA partnership where both must toil to holdThe clue that I caught first. We lose or winTogether; if you read, you are enrolled.And first, a marvel—Who could have foretoldThat in the city which men called in scornThe Perfect City, Dymer could be born?

This moment, if you join me, we begin

A partnership where both must toil to hold

The clue that I caught first. We lose or win

Together; if you read, you are enrolled.

And first, a marvel—Who could have foretold

That in the city which men called in scorn

The Perfect City, Dymer could be born?

There you’d have thought the gods were smothered downForever, and the keys were turned on fate.No hour was left unchartered in that town,And love was in a schedule and the StateChose for eugenic reasons who should mateWith whom, and when. Each idle song and danceWas fixed by law and nothing left to chance.

There you’d have thought the gods were smothered down

Forever, and the keys were turned on fate.

No hour was left unchartered in that town,

And love was in a schedule and the State

Chose for eugenic reasons who should mate

With whom, and when. Each idle song and dance

Was fixed by law and nothing left to chance.

For some of the last Platonists had foundedThat city of old. And mastery they madeAn island of what ought to be, surroundedBy this gross world of easier light and shade.All answering to the master’s dream they laidThe strong foundations, torturing into stoneEach bubble that the Academy had blown.

For some of the last Platonists had founded

That city of old. And mastery they made

An island of what ought to be, surrounded

By this gross world of easier light and shade.

All answering to the master’s dream they laid

The strong foundations, torturing into stone

Each bubble that the Academy had blown.

This people were so pure, so law-abiding,So logical, they made the heavens afraid:They sent the very swallows into hidingBy their appalling chastity dismayed:More soberly the lambs in springtime playedBecause of them: and ghosts dissolved in shameBefore their common-sense—till Dymer came.

This people were so pure, so law-abiding,

So logical, they made the heavens afraid:

They sent the very swallows into hiding

By their appalling chastity dismayed:

More soberly the lambs in springtime played

Because of them: and ghosts dissolved in shame

Before their common-sense—till Dymer came.

At Dymer’s birth no comets scared the nation,The public crèche engulfed him with the rest,And twenty separate Boards of EducationClosed round him. He was passed through every test,Was vaccinated, numbered, washed and dressed,Proctored, inspected, whipt, examined weekly,And for some nineteen years he bore it meekly.

At Dymer’s birth no comets scared the nation,

The public crèche engulfed him with the rest,

And twenty separate Boards of Education

Closed round him. He was passed through every test,

Was vaccinated, numbered, washed and dressed,

Proctored, inspected, whipt, examined weekly,

And for some nineteen years he bore it meekly.

For nineteen years they worked upon his soul,Refining, chipping, moulding and adorning.Then came the moment that undid the whole—The ripple of rude life without a warning.It came in lecture-time one April morning—Alas for laws and locks, reproach and praise,Who ever learned to censor the spring days?

For nineteen years they worked upon his soul,

Refining, chipping, moulding and adorning.

Then came the moment that undid the whole—

The ripple of rude life without a warning.

It came in lecture-time one April morning

—Alas for laws and locks, reproach and praise,

Who ever learned to censor the spring days?

A little breeze came stirring to his cheek.He looked up to the window. A brown birdPerched on the sill, bent down to whet his beakWith darting head—Poor Dymer watched and stirredUneasily. The lecturer’s voice he heardStill droning from the dais. The narrow roomWas drowsy, over-solemn, filled with gloom.

A little breeze came stirring to his cheek.

He looked up to the window. A brown bird

Perched on the sill, bent down to whet his beak

With darting head—Poor Dymer watched and stirred

Uneasily. The lecturer’s voice he heard

Still droning from the dais. The narrow room

Was drowsy, over-solemn, filled with gloom.

He yawned, and a voluptuous lazinessTingled down all his spine and loosed his knees,Slow-drawn, like an invisible caress.He laughed—The lecturer stopped like one that seesA Ghost, then frowned and murmured, “Silence, please.”That moment saw the soul of Dymer hangIn the balance—Louder then his laughter rang.

He yawned, and a voluptuous laziness

Tingled down all his spine and loosed his knees,

Slow-drawn, like an invisible caress.

He laughed—The lecturer stopped like one that sees

A Ghost, then frowned and murmured, “Silence, please.”

That moment saw the soul of Dymer hang

In the balance—Louder then his laughter rang.

The whole room watched with unbelieving awe,He rose and staggered rising. From his lipsBroke yet again the idiot-like guffaw.He felt the spirit in his finger-tips,Then swinging his right arm—a wide ellipseYet lazily—he struck the lecturer’s head.The old man tittered, lurched and dropt down dead.

The whole room watched with unbelieving awe,

He rose and staggered rising. From his lips

Broke yet again the idiot-like guffaw.

He felt the spirit in his finger-tips,

Then swinging his right arm—a wide ellipse

Yet lazily—he struck the lecturer’s head.

The old man tittered, lurched and dropt down dead.

Out of the silent room, out of the darkInto the sum-stream Dymer passed, and thereThe sudden breezes, the high hanging larkThe milk-white clouds sailing in polished air,Suddenly flashed about him like a blareOf trumpets. And no cry was raised behind him.His class sat dazed. They dared not go to find him.

Out of the silent room, out of the dark

Into the sum-stream Dymer passed, and there

The sudden breezes, the high hanging lark

The milk-white clouds sailing in polished air,

Suddenly flashed about him like a blare

Of trumpets. And no cry was raised behind him.

His class sat dazed. They dared not go to find him.

Yet wonderfully some rumour spread abroad—An inarticulate sense of life renewingIn each young heart—He whistled down the road:Men said: “There’s Dymer”—“Why, what’s Dymer doing?”“I don’t know”—“Look, there’s Dymer,”—far pursuingWith troubled eyes—A long mysterious “Oh”Sighed from a hundred throats to see him go.

Yet wonderfully some rumour spread abroad—

An inarticulate sense of life renewing

In each young heart—He whistled down the road:

Men said: “There’s Dymer”—“Why, what’s Dymer doing?”

“I don’t know”—“Look, there’s Dymer,”—far pursuing

With troubled eyes—A long mysterious “Oh”

Sighed from a hundred throats to see him go.

Down the white street and past the gate and forthBeyond the wall he came to grassy places.There was a shifting wind to West and NorthWith clouds in heeling squadron running races.The shadows following on the sunlight’s tracesCrossed the whole field and each wild flower within itWith change of wavering glories every minute.

Down the white street and past the gate and forth

Beyond the wall he came to grassy places.

There was a shifting wind to West and North

With clouds in heeling squadron running races.

The shadows following on the sunlight’s traces

Crossed the whole field and each wild flower within it

With change of wavering glories every minute.

There was a river, flushed with rains, betweenThe flat fields and a forest’s willowy edge.A sauntering pace he shuffled on the green,He kicked his boots against the crackly sedgeAnd tore his hands in many a furzy hedge.He saw his feet and ankles gilded roundWith buttercups that carpeted the ground.

There was a river, flushed with rains, between

The flat fields and a forest’s willowy edge.

A sauntering pace he shuffled on the green,

He kicked his boots against the crackly sedge

And tore his hands in many a furzy hedge.

He saw his feet and ankles gilded round

With buttercups that carpeted the ground.

He looked back then. The line of a low hillHad hid the city’s towers and domes from sight;He stopt: he felt a break of sunlight spillAround him sudden waves of searching light.Upon the earth was green, and gold, and whiteSmothering his feet. He felt his city dressAn insult to that April cheerfulness.

He looked back then. The line of a low hill

Had hid the city’s towers and domes from sight;

He stopt: he felt a break of sunlight spill

Around him sudden waves of searching light.

Upon the earth was green, and gold, and white

Smothering his feet. He felt his city dress

An insult to that April cheerfulness.

He said: “I’ve worn this dust heap long enough,Here goes!” And forthwith in the open fieldHe stripped away that prison of sad stuff:Socks, jacket, shirt and breeches off he peeledAnd rose up mother-naked with no shieldAgainst the sun: then stood awhile to playWith bare toes dabbling in cold river clay.

He said: “I’ve worn this dust heap long enough,

Here goes!” And forthwith in the open field

He stripped away that prison of sad stuff:

Socks, jacket, shirt and breeches off he peeled

And rose up mother-naked with no shield

Against the sun: then stood awhile to play

With bare toes dabbling in cold river clay.

Forward again, and sometimes leaping highWith arms outspread as though he would embraceIn one act all the circle of the sky:Sometimes he rested in a leafier place,And crushed the wet, cool flowers against his face:And once he cried aloud, “Oh world, oh day,Let, let me,”—and then found no prayer to say.

Forward again, and sometimes leaping high

With arms outspread as though he would embrace

In one act all the circle of the sky:

Sometimes he rested in a leafier place,

And crushed the wet, cool flowers against his face:

And once he cried aloud, “Oh world, oh day,

Let, let me,”—and then found no prayer to say.

Up furrows still unpierced with earliest cropHe marched. Through woods he strolled from flower to flower,And over hills. As ointment drop by dropPreciously meted out, so hour by hourThe day slipped through his hands: and now the powerFailed in his feet from walking. He was done,Hungry and cold. That moment sank the sun.

Up furrows still unpierced with earliest crop

He marched. Through woods he strolled from flower to flower,

And over hills. As ointment drop by drop

Preciously meted out, so hour by hour

The day slipped through his hands: and now the power

Failed in his feet from walking. He was done,

Hungry and cold. That moment sank the sun.

He lingered—Looking up, he saw aheadThe black and bristling frontage of a woodAnd over it the large sky swimming redFreckled with homeward crows. Surprised he stoodTo feel that wideness quenching his hot mood,Then shouted, “Trembling darkness, trembling green,What do you mean, wild wood, what do you mean?”

He lingered—Looking up, he saw ahead

The black and bristling frontage of a wood

And over it the large sky swimming red

Freckled with homeward crows. Surprised he stood

To feel that wideness quenching his hot mood,

Then shouted, “Trembling darkness, trembling green,

What do you mean, wild wood, what do you mean?”

He shouted. But the solitude receivedHis noise into her noiselessness, his fireInto her calm. Perhaps he half believedSome answer yet would come to his desire.The hushed air quivered softly like a wireUpon his voice. It echoed, it was gone:The quiet and the quiet dark went on.

He shouted. But the solitude received

His noise into her noiselessness, his fire

Into her calm. Perhaps he half believed

Some answer yet would come to his desire.

The hushed air quivered softly like a wire

Upon his voice. It echoed, it was gone:

The quiet and the quiet dark went on.

He rushed into the wood. He struck and stumbledOn hidden roots. He groped and scratched his face.The little birds woke chattering where he fumbled.The stray cat stood, paw lifted, in mid-chase.There is a windless calm in such a place.A sense of being indoors—so crowded standThe living trees, watching on every hand:

He rushed into the wood. He struck and stumbled

On hidden roots. He groped and scratched his face.

The little birds woke chattering where he fumbled.

The stray cat stood, paw lifted, in mid-chase.

There is a windless calm in such a place.

A sense of being indoors—so crowded stand

The living trees, watching on every hand:

A sense of trespass—such as in the hallOf the wrong house, one time, to me befell.Groping between the hatstand and the wall—A clear voice from above me like a bell,The sweet voice of a woman asking “Well?”No more than this. And as I fled I wonderedInto whose alien story I had blundered.

A sense of trespass—such as in the hall

Of the wrong house, one time, to me befell.

Groping between the hatstand and the wall—

A clear voice from above me like a bell,

The sweet voice of a woman asking “Well?”

No more than this. And as I fled I wondered

Into whose alien story I had blundered.

A like thing fell to Dymer. Bending low,Feeling his way he went. The curtained airSighed into sound above his head, as thoughStringed instruments and horns were riding there.It passed and at its passing stirred his hair.He stood intent to hear. He heard againAnd checked his breath half-drawn, as if with pain.

A like thing fell to Dymer. Bending low,

Feeling his way he went. The curtained air

Sighed into sound above his head, as though

Stringed instruments and horns were riding there.

It passed and at its passing stirred his hair.

He stood intent to hear. He heard again

And checked his breath half-drawn, as if with pain.

That music could have crumbled proud beliefWith doubt, or in the bosom of the sageMadden the heart that had outmastered grief,And flood with tears the eyes of frozen ageAnd turn the young man’s feet to pilgrimage—So sharp it was, so sure a path it found,Soulward with stabbing wounds of bitter sound.

That music could have crumbled proud belief

With doubt, or in the bosom of the sage

Madden the heart that had outmastered grief,

And flood with tears the eyes of frozen age

And turn the young man’s feet to pilgrimage—

So sharp it was, so sure a path it found,

Soulward with stabbing wounds of bitter sound.

It died out on the middle of a note,As though it failed at the urge of its own meaning.It left him with life quivering at the throat,Limbs shaken and wet cheeks and body leaning,With strain towards the sound and senses gleaningThe last, least, ebbing ripple of the air,Searching the emptied darkness, muttering “Where?”

It died out on the middle of a note,

As though it failed at the urge of its own meaning.

It left him with life quivering at the throat,

Limbs shaken and wet cheeks and body leaning,

With strain towards the sound and senses gleaning

The last, least, ebbing ripple of the air,

Searching the emptied darkness, muttering “Where?”

Then followed such a time as is forgottenWith morning light, but in the passing seemsUnending. Where he grasped the branch was rotten,Where he trod forth in haste the forest streamsLaid wait for him. Like men in fever dreamsClimbing an endless rope, he laboured muchAnd gained no ground. He reached and could not touch.

Then followed such a time as is forgotten

With morning light, but in the passing seems

Unending. Where he grasped the branch was rotten,

Where he trod forth in haste the forest streams

Laid wait for him. Like men in fever dreams

Climbing an endless rope, he laboured much

And gained no ground. He reached and could not touch.

And often out of darkness like a swellThat grows up from no wind upon blue sea,He heard the music, unendurableIn stealing sweetness wind from tree to tree.Battered and bruised in body and soul was heWhen first he saw a little lightness growingAhead: and from that light the sound was flowing.

And often out of darkness like a swell

That grows up from no wind upon blue sea,

He heard the music, unendurable

In stealing sweetness wind from tree to tree.

Battered and bruised in body and soul was he

When first he saw a little lightness growing

Ahead: and from that light the sound was flowing.

The trees were fewer now: and gladly nearingThat light, he saw the stars. For sky was there,And smoother grass, white flowered—a forest clearingSet in seven miles of forest, secreterThan valleys in the tops of clouds, more fairThan greenery under snow or desert waterOr the white peace descending after slaughter.

The trees were fewer now: and gladly nearing

That light, he saw the stars. For sky was there,

And smoother grass, white flowered—a forest clearing

Set in seven miles of forest, secreter

Than valleys in the tops of clouds, more fair

Than greenery under snow or desert water

Or the white peace descending after slaughter.

As some who have been wounded beyond healingWake, or half wake, once only and so blessFar off the lamplight travelling on the ceiling.A disk of pale light filled with peacefulnessAnd wonder if this is the C.C.S.,Or home, or heaven, or dreams—then sighing winWise, ignorant death before the pains begin:

As some who have been wounded beyond healing

Wake, or half wake, once only and so bless

Far off the lamplight travelling on the ceiling.

A disk of pale light filled with peacefulness

And wonder if this is the C.C.S.,

Or home, or heaven, or dreams—then sighing win

Wise, ignorant death before the pains begin:

So Dymer in the wood-lawn blessed the light,A still light, rosy, clear, and filled with sound.Here was some pile of building which the nightMade larger. Spiry shadows rose all round,But through the open door appeared profoundRecesses of pure light—fire with no flame—And out of that deep light the music came.

So Dymer in the wood-lawn blessed the light,

A still light, rosy, clear, and filled with sound.

Here was some pile of building which the night

Made larger. Spiry shadows rose all round,

But through the open door appeared profound

Recesses of pure light—fire with no flame—

And out of that deep light the music came.

Tip-toes he slunk towards it where the grassWas twinkling in a lane of light beforeThe archway. There was neither fence to passNor word of challenge given, nor bolted door,But where it’s open, open evermore,No knocker and no porter and no guard,For very strangeness entering in grows hard.

Tip-toes he slunk towards it where the grass

Was twinkling in a lane of light before

The archway. There was neither fence to pass

Nor word of challenge given, nor bolted door,

But where it’s open, open evermore,

No knocker and no porter and no guard,

For very strangeness entering in grows hard.

Breathe not! Speak not! Walk gently. Someone’s here,Why have they left their house with the door so wide?There must be someone.... Dymer hung in fearUpon the threshold, longing and big-eyed.At last he squared his shoulders, smote his sideAnd called, “I’m here. Now let the feast begin.I’m coming now. I’m Dymer,” and went in.

Breathe not! Speak not! Walk gently. Someone’s here,

Why have they left their house with the door so wide?

There must be someone.... Dymer hung in fear

Upon the threshold, longing and big-eyed.

At last he squared his shoulders, smote his side

And called, “I’m here. Now let the feast begin.

I’m coming now. I’m Dymer,” and went in.

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