“Great men and happy years,” you say from theseYour knowledge came, and your diviner powersMore thrilling than the honey-womb of flowersOr the bright star-foam of the Pleiades.So, did you learn the droning lore of beesFrom some be-medalled soldier? Did you meetMadonna-hearted statesmen in the street,Or bishops, babbling of the opal seas?O poor deceiver, conscript joys belongTo you as homage. For the happy yearsBear fruit to-day, and blossom like the flowersThat breathe of summertime in after hours.For you were loyal to a creed of SongNor ever stooped to misery and tears.
“Great men and happy years,” you say from theseYour knowledge came, and your diviner powersMore thrilling than the honey-womb of flowersOr the bright star-foam of the Pleiades.So, did you learn the droning lore of beesFrom some be-medalled soldier? Did you meetMadonna-hearted statesmen in the street,Or bishops, babbling of the opal seas?O poor deceiver, conscript joys belongTo you as homage. For the happy yearsBear fruit to-day, and blossom like the flowersThat breathe of summertime in after hours.For you were loyal to a creed of SongNor ever stooped to misery and tears.
“Great men and happy years,” you say from theseYour knowledge came, and your diviner powersMore thrilling than the honey-womb of flowersOr the bright star-foam of the Pleiades.So, did you learn the droning lore of beesFrom some be-medalled soldier? Did you meetMadonna-hearted statesmen in the street,Or bishops, babbling of the opal seas?
O poor deceiver, conscript joys belongTo you as homage. For the happy yearsBear fruit to-day, and blossom like the flowersThat breathe of summertime in after hours.For you were loyal to a creed of SongNor ever stooped to misery and tears.
WouldI could throw my stuttering self awayAnd shrine the soul wherein all wonders beat,Would I were you, for one brief holidayThe whole shy universe before my feet.O happiness, to know joy’s secret mine,To hold adoring ministers in fee,Narcissus-like to bless the SerpentineAnd with the stars outdance Terpsichore.For once a poet sang of happiness,But now, like running flame, glad voices say—“Joy is the sheer antithesis of wrong.”Enough,—and I, no longer comradeless,Behold exultant on the world’s highwayYour being, and the proof of Pippa’s song.
WouldI could throw my stuttering self awayAnd shrine the soul wherein all wonders beat,Would I were you, for one brief holidayThe whole shy universe before my feet.O happiness, to know joy’s secret mine,To hold adoring ministers in fee,Narcissus-like to bless the SerpentineAnd with the stars outdance Terpsichore.For once a poet sang of happiness,But now, like running flame, glad voices say—“Joy is the sheer antithesis of wrong.”Enough,—and I, no longer comradeless,Behold exultant on the world’s highwayYour being, and the proof of Pippa’s song.
WouldI could throw my stuttering self awayAnd shrine the soul wherein all wonders beat,Would I were you, for one brief holidayThe whole shy universe before my feet.O happiness, to know joy’s secret mine,To hold adoring ministers in fee,Narcissus-like to bless the SerpentineAnd with the stars outdance Terpsichore.
For once a poet sang of happiness,But now, like running flame, glad voices say—“Joy is the sheer antithesis of wrong.”Enough,—and I, no longer comradeless,Behold exultant on the world’s highwayYour being, and the proof of Pippa’s song.
Whenyou are old and dancing shadows playAround the sky-blown laughter in your eyesShall I, unworthy of your new disguise,Forget the sacrament and go away?Shall I adore, like sorrowed men to-day,The child who gurgled in first ecstasiesAt oxen (Mary said) that mooed surpriseAnd snuffed with wondering muzzles in the hay?O leave the past—the living world is mineWarm, passionate, and breathing. Even soShall Life in after years make Earth divineAnd fire shall burn as long as embers glow.But he who babbled to the wondering kineIs dead, long dead, two thousand years ago.
Whenyou are old and dancing shadows playAround the sky-blown laughter in your eyesShall I, unworthy of your new disguise,Forget the sacrament and go away?Shall I adore, like sorrowed men to-day,The child who gurgled in first ecstasiesAt oxen (Mary said) that mooed surpriseAnd snuffed with wondering muzzles in the hay?O leave the past—the living world is mineWarm, passionate, and breathing. Even soShall Life in after years make Earth divineAnd fire shall burn as long as embers glow.But he who babbled to the wondering kineIs dead, long dead, two thousand years ago.
Whenyou are old and dancing shadows playAround the sky-blown laughter in your eyesShall I, unworthy of your new disguise,Forget the sacrament and go away?Shall I adore, like sorrowed men to-day,The child who gurgled in first ecstasiesAt oxen (Mary said) that mooed surpriseAnd snuffed with wondering muzzles in the hay?
O leave the past—the living world is mineWarm, passionate, and breathing. Even soShall Life in after years make Earth divineAnd fire shall burn as long as embers glow.But he who babbled to the wondering kineIs dead, long dead, two thousand years ago.
Touchme, O Lord, and let my sonnet ringWith echoes. Now his words of crowned beliefIn raging hours of pain and sufferingToo high for praise, too terrible for grief,Ring loud and clear. Last night his chariot rolledAnd I beheld him urge amid the starsCloud-fashioned steeds of snow moon-aureoled,Himself a charioteer equipped for wars.Faster and faster—men of Blood and PainOpposed in vast battalions, but heRolled back their army to the dark againAnd triumphed while he sang exultinglyAs now he sings. Boy of the glowing brain,Dear Keats your name is Paradise to me!
Touchme, O Lord, and let my sonnet ringWith echoes. Now his words of crowned beliefIn raging hours of pain and sufferingToo high for praise, too terrible for grief,Ring loud and clear. Last night his chariot rolledAnd I beheld him urge amid the starsCloud-fashioned steeds of snow moon-aureoled,Himself a charioteer equipped for wars.Faster and faster—men of Blood and PainOpposed in vast battalions, but heRolled back their army to the dark againAnd triumphed while he sang exultinglyAs now he sings. Boy of the glowing brain,Dear Keats your name is Paradise to me!
Touchme, O Lord, and let my sonnet ringWith echoes. Now his words of crowned beliefIn raging hours of pain and sufferingToo high for praise, too terrible for grief,Ring loud and clear. Last night his chariot rolledAnd I beheld him urge amid the starsCloud-fashioned steeds of snow moon-aureoled,Himself a charioteer equipped for wars.
Faster and faster—men of Blood and PainOpposed in vast battalions, but heRolled back their army to the dark againAnd triumphed while he sang exultinglyAs now he sings. Boy of the glowing brain,Dear Keats your name is Paradise to me!
She’s coming down the road! You knowThose laughter-woken eyes?I beckon at the stars—But OIf she should recognise:Nearer and nearer yet she trodTill (mad blood-dancing joy)Down from the planet-fields of GodShe nodded, “Hullo, Boy.”
She’s coming down the road! You knowThose laughter-woken eyes?I beckon at the stars—But OIf she should recognise:Nearer and nearer yet she trodTill (mad blood-dancing joy)Down from the planet-fields of GodShe nodded, “Hullo, Boy.”
She’s coming down the road! You knowThose laughter-woken eyes?I beckon at the stars—But OIf she should recognise:
Nearer and nearer yet she trodTill (mad blood-dancing joy)Down from the planet-fields of GodShe nodded, “Hullo, Boy.”
Silenceoutlives the argument of kingsAnd best is dumb applause. Behold, she moves:No soft-winged owlets blink, no cricket sings,Before she greets the murmuring world she loves.Now twirling parachutes of sycamoreHang waiting, and the rippled trout-rings die,The murmur round a jasmine honey storeIs still—a linnet falters suddenly.From out the reeds an awe-struck otter peersAs eerie quiet speeds from bush to bush:High Summer stands on tip-toe as She nearsThe woods, and magic numbs the missel-thrush:Above still grasses prick the listening earsOf rabbits, and a squirrel whispers “Hush!”
Silenceoutlives the argument of kingsAnd best is dumb applause. Behold, she moves:No soft-winged owlets blink, no cricket sings,Before she greets the murmuring world she loves.Now twirling parachutes of sycamoreHang waiting, and the rippled trout-rings die,The murmur round a jasmine honey storeIs still—a linnet falters suddenly.From out the reeds an awe-struck otter peersAs eerie quiet speeds from bush to bush:High Summer stands on tip-toe as She nearsThe woods, and magic numbs the missel-thrush:Above still grasses prick the listening earsOf rabbits, and a squirrel whispers “Hush!”
Silenceoutlives the argument of kingsAnd best is dumb applause. Behold, she moves:No soft-winged owlets blink, no cricket sings,Before she greets the murmuring world she loves.Now twirling parachutes of sycamoreHang waiting, and the rippled trout-rings die,The murmur round a jasmine honey storeIs still—a linnet falters suddenly.
From out the reeds an awe-struck otter peersAs eerie quiet speeds from bush to bush:High Summer stands on tip-toe as She nearsThe woods, and magic numbs the missel-thrush:Above still grasses prick the listening earsOf rabbits, and a squirrel whispers “Hush!”
Afraid, afraid, I sought the kindly nightIn fear that mocking fools should scrutiniseThe beauty I discovered in men’s eyes,And mock me as a dreaming anchorite.For long in fear I sinned against the lightAnd shrouded Poetry with vain disguise;Before I sang, unconscious as the skies,Self-chanting songs to me supreme delight.But now, O littlest of all little minds,High-browed, alone, aloof, you little knowHow like you are to Brown, who lifts the blindsOf his suburban villa, just to showThat he alone is up, but always findsThe neighbourhood awoke an hour ago!
Afraid, afraid, I sought the kindly nightIn fear that mocking fools should scrutiniseThe beauty I discovered in men’s eyes,And mock me as a dreaming anchorite.For long in fear I sinned against the lightAnd shrouded Poetry with vain disguise;Before I sang, unconscious as the skies,Self-chanting songs to me supreme delight.But now, O littlest of all little minds,High-browed, alone, aloof, you little knowHow like you are to Brown, who lifts the blindsOf his suburban villa, just to showThat he alone is up, but always findsThe neighbourhood awoke an hour ago!
Afraid, afraid, I sought the kindly nightIn fear that mocking fools should scrutiniseThe beauty I discovered in men’s eyes,And mock me as a dreaming anchorite.For long in fear I sinned against the lightAnd shrouded Poetry with vain disguise;Before I sang, unconscious as the skies,Self-chanting songs to me supreme delight.
But now, O littlest of all little minds,High-browed, alone, aloof, you little knowHow like you are to Brown, who lifts the blindsOf his suburban villa, just to showThat he alone is up, but always findsThe neighbourhood awoke an hour ago!
Howmuch are you achievingO April day,By orchard looms a-weavingAll apple-gay?Tie on your cherry blossom, clothe your squillsMadonna-blue, and give your daffodilsTheir collars of pale straw, and come away,Your rain-awoken hillsShall welcome May.What is behind your weepingO April tears?Your lilac plumes are sweeping,Your silken spearsOf chestnut bristle in the changing skyWhilst herded clouds foregather, ’neath the highStorm-loud arena’s thundering charioteers:And beckoned silentlyThe swallow nears.
Howmuch are you achievingO April day,By orchard looms a-weavingAll apple-gay?Tie on your cherry blossom, clothe your squillsMadonna-blue, and give your daffodilsTheir collars of pale straw, and come away,Your rain-awoken hillsShall welcome May.What is behind your weepingO April tears?Your lilac plumes are sweeping,Your silken spearsOf chestnut bristle in the changing skyWhilst herded clouds foregather, ’neath the highStorm-loud arena’s thundering charioteers:And beckoned silentlyThe swallow nears.
Howmuch are you achievingO April day,By orchard looms a-weavingAll apple-gay?Tie on your cherry blossom, clothe your squillsMadonna-blue, and give your daffodilsTheir collars of pale straw, and come away,Your rain-awoken hillsShall welcome May.
What is behind your weepingO April tears?Your lilac plumes are sweeping,Your silken spearsOf chestnut bristle in the changing skyWhilst herded clouds foregather, ’neath the highStorm-loud arena’s thundering charioteers:And beckoned silentlyThe swallow nears.
Nowis the swaddling husk of Winter shed,And waking Summer, robed in windy showers,Is heralded from silvered aspen towersAnd orchards in high blossom garlanded.Now sunlight, in the plumed laburnum flowersAnd purple lilac, trembles overhead;And bees a-drone in field and flower bedMake clamorous the trade of teeming hours.Now the sweet-pea, all honey-laden, showsFull-swollen sails, her mooring ropes of greenEncircle twigs. And soon the primrose queenLights her pale lamps of Evening ’mid the glowsOf brazen flower-suns, that burn betweenThe yawning honeysuckle and the rose.
Nowis the swaddling husk of Winter shed,And waking Summer, robed in windy showers,Is heralded from silvered aspen towersAnd orchards in high blossom garlanded.Now sunlight, in the plumed laburnum flowersAnd purple lilac, trembles overhead;And bees a-drone in field and flower bedMake clamorous the trade of teeming hours.Now the sweet-pea, all honey-laden, showsFull-swollen sails, her mooring ropes of greenEncircle twigs. And soon the primrose queenLights her pale lamps of Evening ’mid the glowsOf brazen flower-suns, that burn betweenThe yawning honeysuckle and the rose.
Nowis the swaddling husk of Winter shed,And waking Summer, robed in windy showers,Is heralded from silvered aspen towersAnd orchards in high blossom garlanded.Now sunlight, in the plumed laburnum flowersAnd purple lilac, trembles overhead;And bees a-drone in field and flower bedMake clamorous the trade of teeming hours.
Now the sweet-pea, all honey-laden, showsFull-swollen sails, her mooring ropes of greenEncircle twigs. And soon the primrose queenLights her pale lamps of Evening ’mid the glowsOf brazen flower-suns, that burn betweenThe yawning honeysuckle and the rose.
Sun-bathed in Summer peace the village layThat afternoon. Along the happy streetMilk-fragrant kine, and wagons high with hayCame lumbering. The fields were loud with beesAnd drowsy with the wind-stirred meadowsweet.From bowing treesFell chatter, and above the garden wallWide sunflowers beamed at spearing hollyhocksThat dared the wind, and scorned the clustered stocks,And bore their laddered blooms high over all.Here amid Summer murmur and delightThe strolling singer came. The people heardStray snatches of a song—a laugh—a word,And gossiping in groups of two or threeStood all amazed. For no one came in sight,Only the wind was laden drowsilyWith mellow sounds that slowly growing strongAt last became a song:—“Bend down, the marsh and meadow holdsPale yellow pimpernels,And sun-begotten marigolds,Thyme, orchis, asphodels,And borage born of ocean blue,Plumed armoured thistles, fever-few,Sea-campion globed, and clinging dewIn giant flower-bells.“Bend down—an ebon beetle prowls,And there a swinging beeDrinks honey from the laden cowlsThat clothe the foxglove tree.And giant peacock butterfliesLight meadowsweet with sudden eyes,And through the tangled grasses riseLucerne and timothy.”Louder and louder grew the voice, untilA figure specked the heaven-touching hill,And nearer, nearer, still ...The villagers in mingled fear and aweStood round on tiptoe waiting. Soon they sawA little sylvan man with beckoning eyesAnd limbs of lithe expression. Woven flowersAnd grasses, splashed with rainbow-tinted showers,And jewelled with alluring butterflies,Enwrapped him. Russet face, clear-featured, gayAs pebble-rumpled streams, and tousled hairSun-dyed and naked. His limbs were bronzed and bare,And sprang, it seemed, from the wild interplayOf flower-woven garb. Around his waistTwined traveller’s-joy and honeysuckle, sweetAnd freshly dewed, and on his lissom feetWere pointed shoes of silver beech rush-laced.The village gazed in silence, till a childBegan:—“Who are you, funny man?Your face seems to be telling truth, your eyesAre just the colour of blue butterflies,O tell us who you are?”The stranger smiled,And turned his face that bore the wistful, far,Strange wonder-look of one whose dreams come true,Who delves in darkened quarries of his brainUnhoped-for gold, and changes old to newAs Spring rejuvenates the earth again.Of one who plays Narcissus in Life’s poolAnd sees an image strangely beautiful ...Then suddenly they heard him cry:—“Come buy,I own the laughing earth.And all my chanted words are deeds;I follow where my fancy leads,And sell my songs for mirth.What will you buy?“Speak hurriedly, and choose your song,The poplar’s shadow creeps along,Search hurriedly the Earth and Sky,What will you buy?”Meanwhile a crowd had gathered, in a ring;The butcher, grocer, postman, parson, clerk,And all the village, open-mouthed and stark,Stood mutely marvelling;And children clamoured round him with large eyesAnd pelted him for songs, like countless hail,With pleadings, shouts and cries:—Sing us a song of Paradise,Of railway engines, fawns,Of stolen queens in guarded towers,Of sprites and leprechauns”—O HUSH! All were dumb—“Boy in blue smock, sucking your thumb,With hair like a tangled chrysanthemum,What would you like me to sing, Ocean-eyed?”Loud the boy’s answer rang,“Iwant a song of flowers!”And this is the song he sang:“Sisters of mercy are Cyclamen,Snowdrops and Arums too,But Primulus, Violets, Stocks, Mignonette,Crocus aflame, and the Never Forget,Are chaster than chastity too.Now sulphur Laburnum and Lilac, adieu,Good-bye April children to you!For whoWill climb up the flowers of my Hollyhock towersWith butterfly steeple-jacks blue?But, climber, beware!Of Love-in-a-mist in a tangle of hair,Of thistly Teazles, and winged Sweet-PeasWith tentacle tendrils that strangle with ease,Of butterfly Orchis a-clamour for bees.For Dragon may Snap you, and Sundew may trap you,Before you have started, before you have partedThe grass at the foot of my Hollyhock trees.But think of the viewOf the whole garden side!We’ll charter a dragon-fly homeward, and rideDown to our Rosemary, Marjoram, Rue,Lavender, London Pride.”All watched him, held, bewitched, and with him clungTo the green tops of slowly swaying towers,Where bees had scattered pollen-dust, that hungAbove the teeming nectaries of flowers,And all again were young.But now the poplars cast their phantom barsIn latticed shadows; now a scarf unfurled,Like parrot-tulip petals hued and torn,Across the West was flung.And now, before the twilight bares the stars,Ere jewelled night is born,All silently the Singer left the world.Beyond the hill he passed,But singing all the while; first loud and strong.Then fainter, till at lastCame only jumbled echoes of a song:—“Bend down—the marsh and meadow holdsPale yellow Pimpernels,And sun-begotten MarigoldsThyme, Orchis, Asphodels” ...(Fainter and fainter it grewGentle as ebbing tide)“Butterfly steeple-jacks blue” ...(Fainter it grewAnd died)Echoing “Rosemary, Marjoram, Rue,Lavender, London Pride”
Sun-bathed in Summer peace the village layThat afternoon. Along the happy streetMilk-fragrant kine, and wagons high with hayCame lumbering. The fields were loud with beesAnd drowsy with the wind-stirred meadowsweet.From bowing treesFell chatter, and above the garden wallWide sunflowers beamed at spearing hollyhocksThat dared the wind, and scorned the clustered stocks,And bore their laddered blooms high over all.Here amid Summer murmur and delightThe strolling singer came. The people heardStray snatches of a song—a laugh—a word,And gossiping in groups of two or threeStood all amazed. For no one came in sight,Only the wind was laden drowsilyWith mellow sounds that slowly growing strongAt last became a song:—“Bend down, the marsh and meadow holdsPale yellow pimpernels,And sun-begotten marigolds,Thyme, orchis, asphodels,And borage born of ocean blue,Plumed armoured thistles, fever-few,Sea-campion globed, and clinging dewIn giant flower-bells.“Bend down—an ebon beetle prowls,And there a swinging beeDrinks honey from the laden cowlsThat clothe the foxglove tree.And giant peacock butterfliesLight meadowsweet with sudden eyes,And through the tangled grasses riseLucerne and timothy.”Louder and louder grew the voice, untilA figure specked the heaven-touching hill,And nearer, nearer, still ...The villagers in mingled fear and aweStood round on tiptoe waiting. Soon they sawA little sylvan man with beckoning eyesAnd limbs of lithe expression. Woven flowersAnd grasses, splashed with rainbow-tinted showers,And jewelled with alluring butterflies,Enwrapped him. Russet face, clear-featured, gayAs pebble-rumpled streams, and tousled hairSun-dyed and naked. His limbs were bronzed and bare,And sprang, it seemed, from the wild interplayOf flower-woven garb. Around his waistTwined traveller’s-joy and honeysuckle, sweetAnd freshly dewed, and on his lissom feetWere pointed shoes of silver beech rush-laced.The village gazed in silence, till a childBegan:—“Who are you, funny man?Your face seems to be telling truth, your eyesAre just the colour of blue butterflies,O tell us who you are?”The stranger smiled,And turned his face that bore the wistful, far,Strange wonder-look of one whose dreams come true,Who delves in darkened quarries of his brainUnhoped-for gold, and changes old to newAs Spring rejuvenates the earth again.Of one who plays Narcissus in Life’s poolAnd sees an image strangely beautiful ...Then suddenly they heard him cry:—“Come buy,I own the laughing earth.And all my chanted words are deeds;I follow where my fancy leads,And sell my songs for mirth.What will you buy?“Speak hurriedly, and choose your song,The poplar’s shadow creeps along,Search hurriedly the Earth and Sky,What will you buy?”Meanwhile a crowd had gathered, in a ring;The butcher, grocer, postman, parson, clerk,And all the village, open-mouthed and stark,Stood mutely marvelling;And children clamoured round him with large eyesAnd pelted him for songs, like countless hail,With pleadings, shouts and cries:—Sing us a song of Paradise,Of railway engines, fawns,Of stolen queens in guarded towers,Of sprites and leprechauns”—O HUSH! All were dumb—“Boy in blue smock, sucking your thumb,With hair like a tangled chrysanthemum,What would you like me to sing, Ocean-eyed?”Loud the boy’s answer rang,“Iwant a song of flowers!”And this is the song he sang:“Sisters of mercy are Cyclamen,Snowdrops and Arums too,But Primulus, Violets, Stocks, Mignonette,Crocus aflame, and the Never Forget,Are chaster than chastity too.Now sulphur Laburnum and Lilac, adieu,Good-bye April children to you!For whoWill climb up the flowers of my Hollyhock towersWith butterfly steeple-jacks blue?But, climber, beware!Of Love-in-a-mist in a tangle of hair,Of thistly Teazles, and winged Sweet-PeasWith tentacle tendrils that strangle with ease,Of butterfly Orchis a-clamour for bees.For Dragon may Snap you, and Sundew may trap you,Before you have started, before you have partedThe grass at the foot of my Hollyhock trees.But think of the viewOf the whole garden side!We’ll charter a dragon-fly homeward, and rideDown to our Rosemary, Marjoram, Rue,Lavender, London Pride.”All watched him, held, bewitched, and with him clungTo the green tops of slowly swaying towers,Where bees had scattered pollen-dust, that hungAbove the teeming nectaries of flowers,And all again were young.But now the poplars cast their phantom barsIn latticed shadows; now a scarf unfurled,Like parrot-tulip petals hued and torn,Across the West was flung.And now, before the twilight bares the stars,Ere jewelled night is born,All silently the Singer left the world.Beyond the hill he passed,But singing all the while; first loud and strong.Then fainter, till at lastCame only jumbled echoes of a song:—“Bend down—the marsh and meadow holdsPale yellow Pimpernels,And sun-begotten MarigoldsThyme, Orchis, Asphodels” ...(Fainter and fainter it grewGentle as ebbing tide)“Butterfly steeple-jacks blue” ...(Fainter it grewAnd died)Echoing “Rosemary, Marjoram, Rue,Lavender, London Pride”
Sun-bathed in Summer peace the village layThat afternoon. Along the happy streetMilk-fragrant kine, and wagons high with hayCame lumbering. The fields were loud with beesAnd drowsy with the wind-stirred meadowsweet.From bowing treesFell chatter, and above the garden wallWide sunflowers beamed at spearing hollyhocksThat dared the wind, and scorned the clustered stocks,And bore their laddered blooms high over all.
Here amid Summer murmur and delightThe strolling singer came. The people heardStray snatches of a song—a laugh—a word,And gossiping in groups of two or threeStood all amazed. For no one came in sight,Only the wind was laden drowsilyWith mellow sounds that slowly growing strongAt last became a song:—
“Bend down, the marsh and meadow holdsPale yellow pimpernels,And sun-begotten marigolds,Thyme, orchis, asphodels,And borage born of ocean blue,Plumed armoured thistles, fever-few,Sea-campion globed, and clinging dewIn giant flower-bells.
“Bend down—an ebon beetle prowls,And there a swinging beeDrinks honey from the laden cowlsThat clothe the foxglove tree.And giant peacock butterfliesLight meadowsweet with sudden eyes,And through the tangled grasses riseLucerne and timothy.”
Louder and louder grew the voice, untilA figure specked the heaven-touching hill,And nearer, nearer, still ...The villagers in mingled fear and aweStood round on tiptoe waiting. Soon they sawA little sylvan man with beckoning eyesAnd limbs of lithe expression. Woven flowersAnd grasses, splashed with rainbow-tinted showers,And jewelled with alluring butterflies,Enwrapped him. Russet face, clear-featured, gayAs pebble-rumpled streams, and tousled hairSun-dyed and naked. His limbs were bronzed and bare,And sprang, it seemed, from the wild interplayOf flower-woven garb. Around his waistTwined traveller’s-joy and honeysuckle, sweetAnd freshly dewed, and on his lissom feetWere pointed shoes of silver beech rush-laced.
The village gazed in silence, till a childBegan:—“Who are you, funny man?Your face seems to be telling truth, your eyesAre just the colour of blue butterflies,O tell us who you are?”The stranger smiled,And turned his face that bore the wistful, far,Strange wonder-look of one whose dreams come true,Who delves in darkened quarries of his brainUnhoped-for gold, and changes old to newAs Spring rejuvenates the earth again.Of one who plays Narcissus in Life’s poolAnd sees an image strangely beautiful ...Then suddenly they heard him cry:—
“Come buy,I own the laughing earth.And all my chanted words are deeds;I follow where my fancy leads,And sell my songs for mirth.What will you buy?
“Speak hurriedly, and choose your song,The poplar’s shadow creeps along,Search hurriedly the Earth and Sky,What will you buy?”
Meanwhile a crowd had gathered, in a ring;The butcher, grocer, postman, parson, clerk,And all the village, open-mouthed and stark,Stood mutely marvelling;And children clamoured round him with large eyesAnd pelted him for songs, like countless hail,With pleadings, shouts and cries:—
Sing us a song of Paradise,Of railway engines, fawns,Of stolen queens in guarded towers,Of sprites and leprechauns”—O HUSH! All were dumb—“Boy in blue smock, sucking your thumb,With hair like a tangled chrysanthemum,What would you like me to sing, Ocean-eyed?”
Loud the boy’s answer rang,“Iwant a song of flowers!”And this is the song he sang:
“Sisters of mercy are Cyclamen,Snowdrops and Arums too,But Primulus, Violets, Stocks, Mignonette,Crocus aflame, and the Never Forget,Are chaster than chastity too.Now sulphur Laburnum and Lilac, adieu,Good-bye April children to you!For whoWill climb up the flowers of my Hollyhock towersWith butterfly steeple-jacks blue?
But, climber, beware!Of Love-in-a-mist in a tangle of hair,Of thistly Teazles, and winged Sweet-PeasWith tentacle tendrils that strangle with ease,Of butterfly Orchis a-clamour for bees.For Dragon may Snap you, and Sundew may trap you,Before you have started, before you have partedThe grass at the foot of my Hollyhock trees.But think of the viewOf the whole garden side!We’ll charter a dragon-fly homeward, and rideDown to our Rosemary, Marjoram, Rue,Lavender, London Pride.”
All watched him, held, bewitched, and with him clungTo the green tops of slowly swaying towers,Where bees had scattered pollen-dust, that hungAbove the teeming nectaries of flowers,And all again were young.But now the poplars cast their phantom barsIn latticed shadows; now a scarf unfurled,Like parrot-tulip petals hued and torn,Across the West was flung.And now, before the twilight bares the stars,Ere jewelled night is born,All silently the Singer left the world.Beyond the hill he passed,But singing all the while; first loud and strong.Then fainter, till at lastCame only jumbled echoes of a song:—
“Bend down—the marsh and meadow holdsPale yellow Pimpernels,And sun-begotten MarigoldsThyme, Orchis, Asphodels” ...(Fainter and fainter it grewGentle as ebbing tide)“Butterfly steeple-jacks blue” ...(Fainter it grewAnd died)Echoing “Rosemary, Marjoram, Rue,Lavender, London Pride”
Beatquietly, hid heart.Build, little limbs, and brain divinely wrought,Grow, grow in peace. Around, the pangs of warAre powerless to cripple thee or marThy sure perfection. But, if Death besoughtFor thee, our tethered souls could never part:Beat quietly, hid heart.Form, primal thought,Close-furled and sheltered as the budding SpringUnknown, unknowing, yet divinely planned.But stay awhile, for sounds of battle ring.Stir, little handUnrealized—I count the dragging hoursAnd yearn to see it clutch at yonder flowers;To see thy lucent feet and dimpled frameAnd gaze at heav’n-snatched eyes and know thy name,But stay awhile.For thou art best alone away from Man:Wait longer, tears unshed and lurking smileOf joy enshrined where every joy began.Time hurries as the moments thump along(Hark, little ears, my heart is beating strong)Life is aglow, alive, a perfect song.Around the land is ugly, but apartI fashion thee in thought. Now hush, for sleepIs here. Close, eyes unopened, voice unheard,Be still. Grow on in beauty till day creep ...Hark to my whispered word—Beat quietly, hid heart.
Beatquietly, hid heart.Build, little limbs, and brain divinely wrought,Grow, grow in peace. Around, the pangs of warAre powerless to cripple thee or marThy sure perfection. But, if Death besoughtFor thee, our tethered souls could never part:Beat quietly, hid heart.Form, primal thought,Close-furled and sheltered as the budding SpringUnknown, unknowing, yet divinely planned.But stay awhile, for sounds of battle ring.Stir, little handUnrealized—I count the dragging hoursAnd yearn to see it clutch at yonder flowers;To see thy lucent feet and dimpled frameAnd gaze at heav’n-snatched eyes and know thy name,But stay awhile.For thou art best alone away from Man:Wait longer, tears unshed and lurking smileOf joy enshrined where every joy began.Time hurries as the moments thump along(Hark, little ears, my heart is beating strong)Life is aglow, alive, a perfect song.Around the land is ugly, but apartI fashion thee in thought. Now hush, for sleepIs here. Close, eyes unopened, voice unheard,Be still. Grow on in beauty till day creep ...Hark to my whispered word—Beat quietly, hid heart.
Beatquietly, hid heart.Build, little limbs, and brain divinely wrought,Grow, grow in peace. Around, the pangs of warAre powerless to cripple thee or marThy sure perfection. But, if Death besoughtFor thee, our tethered souls could never part:Beat quietly, hid heart.Form, primal thought,Close-furled and sheltered as the budding SpringUnknown, unknowing, yet divinely planned.But stay awhile, for sounds of battle ring.Stir, little handUnrealized—I count the dragging hoursAnd yearn to see it clutch at yonder flowers;To see thy lucent feet and dimpled frameAnd gaze at heav’n-snatched eyes and know thy name,But stay awhile.For thou art best alone away from Man:Wait longer, tears unshed and lurking smileOf joy enshrined where every joy began.Time hurries as the moments thump along(Hark, little ears, my heart is beating strong)Life is aglow, alive, a perfect song.Around the land is ugly, but apartI fashion thee in thought. Now hush, for sleepIs here. Close, eyes unopened, voice unheard,Be still. Grow on in beauty till day creep ...Hark to my whispered word—Beat quietly, hid heart.