Wide are the meadows of night,And daisies are shining there,Tossing their lovely dews,Lustrous and fair;And through these sweet fields go,Wanderers amid the stars —Venus, Mercury, Uranus, Neptune,Saturn, Jupiter, Mars.
'Tired in their silver, they move,And circling, whisper and say,Fair are the blossoming meads of delightThrough which we stray.
MANY A MICKLEA little sound —-Only a little, a little —-The breath in a reed,A trembling fiddle;A trumpet's ring,The shuddering drum;So all the glory, bravery, hushOf music come.
A little sound —-Only a stir and a sighOf each green leafIts fluttering neighbor by;Oak on to oak,The wide dark forest through —-So o'er the watery wheeling worldThe night winds go.
A little sound,Only a little, a little —-The thin high droneOf the simmering kettle,The gathering frost,The click of needle and thread;Mother, the fading wall, the dream,The drowsy bed.
Will he ever be weary of wandering,The flaming sun?Ever weary of waning in lovelight,The white still moon?Will ever a shepherd comeWith a crook of simple gold,And lead all the little starsLike lambs to the fold?
Will ever the Wanderer sailFrom over the sea,Up the river of water,To the stones to me?Will he take us all into his ship,Dreaming, and waft us far,To where in the clouds of the WestThe Islands are?
Where is beauty?Gone, gone:The cold winds have taken itWith their faint moan;The white stars have shaken it,Trembling down,Into the pathless deeps of the sea.Gone, goneIs beauty from me.
The clear naked flowerIs faded and dead;The green-leafed willow,Drooping her head,Whispers low to the shadeOf her boughs in the stream,Sighing a beauty,Secret as dream.
As I sat musing by the frozen dyke,There was a man marching with a bright steel pike,Marching in the dayshine like a ghost came he,And behind me was the moaning and the murmurOf the sea.
As I sat musing, 'twas not one but ten —-Rank on rank of ghostly soldiers marching o'er the fen,Marching in the misty air they showed in dreams to me,And behind me was the shouting and the shatteringof the sea.
As I sat musing, 'twas a host in dark array,With their horses and their cannon wheeling onwardto the fray,Moving like a shadow to the fate the brave must dree,And behind me roared the drums, rang the trumpetsof the sea.
Thousandz of thornz there beOn the Rozez where gozezThe Zebra of Zee:Sleek, striped, and hairy,The steed of the FairyPrincess of Zee.
Heavy with blossomz beThe Rozez that growzezIn the thickets of Zee.Where grazez the Zebra,Marked Abracadeeebra,Of the Princess of Zee.
And he nozez that poziezOf the Rozez that grozezSo luvez'm and free,With an eye, dark and wary,In search of a Fairy,Whose Rozez he knowzezWere not honeyed for he,But to breathe a sweet incenseTo solace the PrincessOf far-away Zee.
A Song of Enchantment I sang me there,In a green —green wood, by waters fair,Just as the words came up to meI sang it under the wildwood tree.
Widdershins turned I, singing it low,Watching the wild birds come and go;No cloud in the deep dark blue to be seenUnder the thick-thatched branches green.
Twilight came; silence came;The planet of Evening's silver flame;By darkening paths I wandered throughThickets trembling with drops of dew.
But the music is lost and the words are goneOf the song I sang as I sat alone,Ages and ages have fallen on me—On the wood and the pool and the elder tree.
Sunlight, moonlight,Twilight, starlight-Gloaming at the close of day,And an owl calling,Cool dews fallingIn a wood of oak and may.
Lantern-light, taper-light,Torchlight, no-light:Darkness at the shut of day,And lions roaring,Their wrath pouringIn wild waste places far away.
Elf-light, bat-light,Touchwood-light and toad-light,And the sea a shimmering gloom of grey,And a small face smilingIn a dream's beguilingIn a world of wonders far away.
Sweep thy faint Strings, Musician,With thy long lean hand;Downward the starry tapers burn,Sinks soft the waning sand;The old hound whimpers couched in sleep,The embers smoulder low;Across the walls the shadowsCome, and go.
Sweep softly thy strings, Musician,The minutes mount to hours;Frost on the windless casement weavesA labyrinth of flowers;Ghosts linger in the darkening air,Hearken at the open door;Music hath called them, dreaming,Home once more.
Who said, 'Peacock Pie?'The old King to the sparrow:Who said, 'Crops are ripe?'Rust to the harrow:Who said, 'Where sleeps she now?'Where rests she now her head,Bathed in eve's loveliness'? —-That's what I said.
Who said, 'Ay, mum's the word'?Sexton to willow:Who said, 'Green duck for dreams,Moss for a pillow'?
Who said, 'All Time's delightHath she for narrow bed;Life's troubled bubble broken'? —-That's what I said.
AT the edge of All the AgesA Knight sate on his steed,His armor red and thin with rustHis soul from sorrow freed;And he lifted up his visorFrom a face of skin and bone,And his horse turned head and whinniedAs the twain stood there alone.
No bird above that steep of timeSang of a livelong quest;No wind breathed,Rest:"Lone for an end!" cried Knight to steed,Loosed an eager rein—Charged with his challenge into space:And quiet did quiet remain.
End of Project Gutenberg's Peacock Pie, A Book of Rhymes, by Walter de la Mare