If the blossoms were beans,I should know what it means—This blaze, which I certainly cannot endure;It is evil, too,For its colour is blue,And the sense of the matter is quite obscure.Celestial truthIs the food of youth;But the music was dark as a moonless night.The facts in the songWere all of them wrong,And there was not a single sum done right;Tho’ a metaphysician amongst the crowd,In a voice that was notably deep and loud,Repeated, as fast as he was able,The whole of the multiplication table.So the cry flapped off as a wild goose flies,And the stars came out in the trembling skies,And ever the mystic glory grewIn the garden of blue chrysanthemums,Till there came a rumble of distant drums;And the multitude suddenly turned and flew.... A dead ape lay where their feet had been ...And we called for the yellow palankeen,And the flowers divided and let us through.The black-barred moon was large and lowWhen we came to the Forest of Ancient Woe;And over our heads the stars were bright.But through the forest the path we travelledIts phosphorescent aisle unravelledIn one thin ribbon of dwindling light:And twice and thrice on the fainting trackWe paused to listen. The moon grew black,But the coolies’ faces glimmered white,As the wild woods echoed in dreadful chorusA laugh that came horribly hopping o’er usLike monstrous frogs thro’ the murky night.Then the tall thin man as we swung alongSang us an old enchanted songThat lightened our hearts of their fearful load.But, e’en as the moonlit air grew sweet,We heard the pad of stealthy feetDogging us down the thin white road;And the song grew weary again and harsh,And the black trees dripped like the fringe of a marsh,And a laugh crept out like a shadowy toad;And we knew it was neither ghoul nor djinn:It was Creeping Sin! It was Creeping Sin!But we came to a bend, and the white moon glowedLike a gate at the end of the narrowing roadFar away; and on either hand,As guards of a path to the heart’s desire,The strange tall blossoms of soft blue fireStretched away thro’ that unknown land,League on league with their dwindling laneDown to the large low moon; and againThere shimmered around us that mystical strain,In a tongue that it seemed we could understand.
If the blossoms were beans,I should know what it means—This blaze, which I certainly cannot endure;It is evil, too,For its colour is blue,And the sense of the matter is quite obscure.Celestial truthIs the food of youth;But the music was dark as a moonless night.The facts in the songWere all of them wrong,And there was not a single sum done right;Tho’ a metaphysician amongst the crowd,In a voice that was notably deep and loud,Repeated, as fast as he was able,The whole of the multiplication table.So the cry flapped off as a wild goose flies,And the stars came out in the trembling skies,And ever the mystic glory grewIn the garden of blue chrysanthemums,Till there came a rumble of distant drums;And the multitude suddenly turned and flew.... A dead ape lay where their feet had been ...And we called for the yellow palankeen,And the flowers divided and let us through.The black-barred moon was large and lowWhen we came to the Forest of Ancient Woe;And over our heads the stars were bright.But through the forest the path we travelledIts phosphorescent aisle unravelledIn one thin ribbon of dwindling light:And twice and thrice on the fainting trackWe paused to listen. The moon grew black,But the coolies’ faces glimmered white,As the wild woods echoed in dreadful chorusA laugh that came horribly hopping o’er usLike monstrous frogs thro’ the murky night.Then the tall thin man as we swung alongSang us an old enchanted songThat lightened our hearts of their fearful load.But, e’en as the moonlit air grew sweet,We heard the pad of stealthy feetDogging us down the thin white road;And the song grew weary again and harsh,And the black trees dripped like the fringe of a marsh,And a laugh crept out like a shadowy toad;And we knew it was neither ghoul nor djinn:It was Creeping Sin! It was Creeping Sin!But we came to a bend, and the white moon glowedLike a gate at the end of the narrowing roadFar away; and on either hand,As guards of a path to the heart’s desire,The strange tall blossoms of soft blue fireStretched away thro’ that unknown land,League on league with their dwindling laneDown to the large low moon; and againThere shimmered around us that mystical strain,In a tongue that it seemed we could understand.
If the blossoms were beans,I should know what it means—This blaze, which I certainly cannot endure;It is evil, too,For its colour is blue,And the sense of the matter is quite obscure.Celestial truthIs the food of youth;But the music was dark as a moonless night.The facts in the songWere all of them wrong,And there was not a single sum done right;Tho’ a metaphysician amongst the crowd,In a voice that was notably deep and loud,Repeated, as fast as he was able,The whole of the multiplication table.
So the cry flapped off as a wild goose flies,And the stars came out in the trembling skies,And ever the mystic glory grewIn the garden of blue chrysanthemums,Till there came a rumble of distant drums;And the multitude suddenly turned and flew.... A dead ape lay where their feet had been ...And we called for the yellow palankeen,And the flowers divided and let us through.The black-barred moon was large and lowWhen we came to the Forest of Ancient Woe;And over our heads the stars were bright.But through the forest the path we travelledIts phosphorescent aisle unravelledIn one thin ribbon of dwindling light:And twice and thrice on the fainting trackWe paused to listen. The moon grew black,But the coolies’ faces glimmered white,As the wild woods echoed in dreadful chorusA laugh that came horribly hopping o’er usLike monstrous frogs thro’ the murky night.
Then the tall thin man as we swung alongSang us an old enchanted songThat lightened our hearts of their fearful load.But, e’en as the moonlit air grew sweet,We heard the pad of stealthy feetDogging us down the thin white road;And the song grew weary again and harsh,And the black trees dripped like the fringe of a marsh,And a laugh crept out like a shadowy toad;And we knew it was neither ghoul nor djinn:It was Creeping Sin! It was Creeping Sin!
But we came to a bend, and the white moon glowedLike a gate at the end of the narrowing roadFar away; and on either hand,As guards of a path to the heart’s desire,The strange tall blossoms of soft blue fireStretched away thro’ that unknown land,League on league with their dwindling laneDown to the large low moon; and againThere shimmered around us that mystical strain,In a tongue that it seemed we could understand.
Hold by right and rule by fearTill the slowly broadening sphereMelting through the skies aboveMerge into the sphere of love.Hold by might until you findMight is powerless o’er the mind:Hold by Truth until you see,Though they bow before the wind,Its towers can mock at liberty.Time, the seneschal, is blind;Time is blind: and what are we?Captives of Infinity,Claiming through Truth’s prison barsKinship with the wandering stars.O, who could tell the wild weird sightsWe saw in all the days and nightsWe travelled through those forests old.We saw the griffons on white cliffs,Among fantastic hieroglyphs,Guarding enormous heaps of gold:We saw the Ghastroi—curious menWho dwell, like tigers, in a den,And howl whene’er the moon is cold;They stripe themselves with red and blackAnd ride upon the yellow Yak.Their dens are always ankle-deepWith twisted knives, and in their sleepThey often cut themselves; they sayThat if you wish to live in peaceThe surest way is not to ceaseCollecting knives; and never a dayCan pass, unless they buy a few;And as their enemies buy them tooThey all avert the impending fray,And starve their children and their wivesTo buy the necessary knives.* * * * *The forest leapt with shadowy shapesAs we came to the great black Tower of Apes:But we gave them purple figs and grapesIn alabaster amphoras:We gave them curious kinds of fruitWith betel nuts and orris-root,And then they let us pass:And when we reached the Tower of SnakesWe gave them soft white honey-cakes,And warm sweet milk in bowls of brass:And on the hundredth eve we foundThe City of the Secret Wound.We saw the mystic blossoms blowRound the City, far below;Faintly in the sunset glowWe saw the soft blue glory flowO’er many a golden garden gate:And o’er the tiny dark green seasOf tamarisks and tulip-trees,Domes like golden orangesDream aloft elate.And clearer, clearer as we went,We heard from tower and battlementA whisper, like a warning, sentFrom watchers out of sight;And clearer, brighter, as we drewClose to the walls, we saw the blueFlashing of plumes where peacocks flewThro’ zones of pearly light.On either side, a fat black bonzeGuarded the gates of red-wrought bronze,Blazoned with blue sea-dragonsAnd mouths of yawning flame;Down the road of dusty red,Though their brown feet ached and bled,Our coolies went with joyful tread:Like living fans the gates outspreadAnd opened as we came.
Hold by right and rule by fearTill the slowly broadening sphereMelting through the skies aboveMerge into the sphere of love.Hold by might until you findMight is powerless o’er the mind:Hold by Truth until you see,Though they bow before the wind,Its towers can mock at liberty.Time, the seneschal, is blind;Time is blind: and what are we?Captives of Infinity,Claiming through Truth’s prison barsKinship with the wandering stars.O, who could tell the wild weird sightsWe saw in all the days and nightsWe travelled through those forests old.We saw the griffons on white cliffs,Among fantastic hieroglyphs,Guarding enormous heaps of gold:We saw the Ghastroi—curious menWho dwell, like tigers, in a den,And howl whene’er the moon is cold;They stripe themselves with red and blackAnd ride upon the yellow Yak.Their dens are always ankle-deepWith twisted knives, and in their sleepThey often cut themselves; they sayThat if you wish to live in peaceThe surest way is not to ceaseCollecting knives; and never a dayCan pass, unless they buy a few;And as their enemies buy them tooThey all avert the impending fray,And starve their children and their wivesTo buy the necessary knives.* * * * *The forest leapt with shadowy shapesAs we came to the great black Tower of Apes:But we gave them purple figs and grapesIn alabaster amphoras:We gave them curious kinds of fruitWith betel nuts and orris-root,And then they let us pass:And when we reached the Tower of SnakesWe gave them soft white honey-cakes,And warm sweet milk in bowls of brass:And on the hundredth eve we foundThe City of the Secret Wound.We saw the mystic blossoms blowRound the City, far below;Faintly in the sunset glowWe saw the soft blue glory flowO’er many a golden garden gate:And o’er the tiny dark green seasOf tamarisks and tulip-trees,Domes like golden orangesDream aloft elate.And clearer, clearer as we went,We heard from tower and battlementA whisper, like a warning, sentFrom watchers out of sight;And clearer, brighter, as we drewClose to the walls, we saw the blueFlashing of plumes where peacocks flewThro’ zones of pearly light.On either side, a fat black bonzeGuarded the gates of red-wrought bronze,Blazoned with blue sea-dragonsAnd mouths of yawning flame;Down the road of dusty red,Though their brown feet ached and bled,Our coolies went with joyful tread:Like living fans the gates outspreadAnd opened as we came.
Hold by right and rule by fearTill the slowly broadening sphereMelting through the skies aboveMerge into the sphere of love.
Hold by might until you findMight is powerless o’er the mind:Hold by Truth until you see,Though they bow before the wind,Its towers can mock at liberty.
Time, the seneschal, is blind;Time is blind: and what are we?Captives of Infinity,Claiming through Truth’s prison barsKinship with the wandering stars.O, who could tell the wild weird sightsWe saw in all the days and nightsWe travelled through those forests old.We saw the griffons on white cliffs,Among fantastic hieroglyphs,Guarding enormous heaps of gold:We saw the Ghastroi—curious menWho dwell, like tigers, in a den,And howl whene’er the moon is cold;They stripe themselves with red and blackAnd ride upon the yellow Yak.
Their dens are always ankle-deepWith twisted knives, and in their sleepThey often cut themselves; they sayThat if you wish to live in peaceThe surest way is not to ceaseCollecting knives; and never a dayCan pass, unless they buy a few;And as their enemies buy them tooThey all avert the impending fray,And starve their children and their wivesTo buy the necessary knives.* * * * *The forest leapt with shadowy shapesAs we came to the great black Tower of Apes:But we gave them purple figs and grapesIn alabaster amphoras:We gave them curious kinds of fruitWith betel nuts and orris-root,And then they let us pass:And when we reached the Tower of SnakesWe gave them soft white honey-cakes,And warm sweet milk in bowls of brass:And on the hundredth eve we foundThe City of the Secret Wound.
We saw the mystic blossoms blowRound the City, far below;Faintly in the sunset glowWe saw the soft blue glory flowO’er many a golden garden gate:And o’er the tiny dark green seasOf tamarisks and tulip-trees,Domes like golden orangesDream aloft elate.
And clearer, clearer as we went,We heard from tower and battlementA whisper, like a warning, sentFrom watchers out of sight;And clearer, brighter, as we drewClose to the walls, we saw the blueFlashing of plumes where peacocks flewThro’ zones of pearly light.
On either side, a fat black bonzeGuarded the gates of red-wrought bronze,Blazoned with blue sea-dragonsAnd mouths of yawning flame;Down the road of dusty red,Though their brown feet ached and bled,Our coolies went with joyful tread:Like living fans the gates outspreadAnd opened as we came.
Thewhite moon dawned; the sunset died;And stars were trembling when we spiedThe rose-red temple of our dreams:Its lamp-lit gardens glimmered coolWith many an onyx-paven pool,Amid soft sounds of flowing streams;Where star-shine shimmered through the whiteTall fountain-shafts of crystal lightIn ever changing rainbow-gleams.Priests in flowing yellow robesGlided under rosy globes;Through the green pomegranate boughsMoonbeams poured their coloured rain;Roofs of sea-green porcelainJutted o’er the rose-red house;Bells were hung beneath its eaves;Every wind that stirred the leavesTinkled as tired water does.The temple had a low broad baseOf black bright marble; all its faceWas marble bright in rosy bloom;And where two sea-green pillars roseDeep in the flower-soft eave-shadowsWe saw, thro’ richly sparkling gloom,Wrought in marvellous years of oldWith bulls and peacocks bossed in gold,The doors of powdered lacquer loom.Quietly then the tall thin man,Holding his turquoise-tinted fan,Alighted from the palanquin;We followed: never painter dreamedOf how that dark rich temple gleamedWith gules of jewelled gloom within;And as we wondered near the doorA priest came o’er the polished floorIn sandals of soft serpent-skin;His mitre shimmered bright and blueWith pigeon’s breast-plumes. When he knewOur quest he stroked his broad white chin,And looked at us with slanting eyesAnd smiled; then through his deep disguiseWe knew him! It was Creeping Sin!But cunningly he bowed his headDown on his gilded breast and saidCome: and he led us through the duskOf passages whose painted wallsGleamed with dark old festivals;Till where the gloom grew sweet with muskAnd incense, through a door of amberWe came into a high-arched chamber.There on a throne of jasper satA monstrous idol, black and fat;Thick rose-oil dropped upon its head:Drop by drop, heavy and sweet,Trickled down to its ebon feetWhereon the blood of goats was shed,And smeared around its perfumed kneesIn savage midnight mysteries.It wore about its bulging waistA belt of dark green bronze enchasedWith big, soft, cloudy pearls; its wristsWere clasped about with moony gemsGathered from dead kings’ diadems;Its throat was ringed with amethysts,And in its awful hand it heldA softly smouldering emerald.Silkily murmured Creeping Sin,“This is the stone you wished to win!”“White Snake,” replied the tall thin man,“Show us the Ruby Stone, or IWill slay thee with my hands.” The slyLong eyelids of the priest beganTo slant aside; and then once moreHe led us through the fragrant door.And now along the passage wallsWere painted hideous animals,With hooded eyes and cloven stings:In the incense that like shadowy hairStreamed over them they seemed to stirTheir craggy claws and crooked wings.At last we saw strange moon-wreaths curlAround a deep, soft porch of pearl.O, what enchanter wove in dreamsThat chapel wild with shadowy gleamsAnd prismy colours of the moon?Shrined like a rainbow in a mistOf flowers, the fretted amethystArches rose to a mystic tune;And never mortal art inlaidThose cloudy floors of sea-soft jade.There, in the midst, an idol roseWhite as the silent starlit snowsOn lonely Himalayan heights:Over its head the spikenard spilledDown to its feet, with myrrh distilledIn distant, odorous Indian nights:It held before its ivory faceA flaming yellow chrysoprase.O, silkily murmured Creeping Sin,“This is the stone you wished to win.”But in his ear the tall thin manWhispered with slow, strange lips—we knewNot what, but Creeping Sin went blueWith fear; again his eyes beganTo slant aside; then through the porchHe passed, and lit a tall, brown torch.Down a corridor dark as death,With beating hearts and bated breathWe hurried; far away we heardA dreadful hissing, fierce as fireWhen rain begins to quench a pyre;And where the smoky torch-light flaredStrange vermin beat their bat-like wings,And the wet walls dropped with slimy things.And darker, darker, wound the way,Beyond all gleams of night and day,And still that hideous hissing grewLouder and louder on our ears,And tortured us with eyeless fears;Then suddenly the gloom turned blue,And, in the wall, a rough rock caveGaped, like a phosphorescent grave.And from the purple mist withinThere came a wild tumultuous dinOf snakes that reared their heads andhissedAs if a witch’s cauldron boiled;All round the door great serpents coiled,With eyes of glowing amethyst,Whose fierce blue flames began to slideLike shooting stars from side to side.Ah! with a sickly gasping grinAnd quivering eyelids, Creeping SinStole to the cave; but, suddenly,As through its glimmering mouth he passed,The serpents flashed and gripped him fast:He wriggled and gave one awful cry,Then all at once the cave was cleared;The snakes with their victim had disappeared.And fearlessly the tall thin manOpened his turquoise-tinted fanAnd entered; and the mists grew bright,And we saw that the cave was a diamond hallLit with lamps for a festival.A myriad globes of coloured lightWent gliding deep in its massy sides,Like the shimmering moons in the glassy tidesWhere a sea-king’s palace enchants the night.Gliding and flowing, a glory and wonder,Through each other, and over, and under,The lucent orbs of green and gold,Bright with sorrow or soft with sleep,In music through the glimmering deep,Over their secret axles rolled,And circled by the murmuring spheresWe saw in a frame of frozen tearsA mirror that made the blood run cold.For, when we came to it, we foundIt imaged everything aroundExcept the face that gazed in it;And where the mirrored face should beA heart-shaped Ruby fierilySmouldered; and round the frame was writ,Mystery: Time and Tide shall pass,I am the Wisdom Looking-Glass.This is the Ruby none can touch:Many have loved it overmuch;Its fathomless fires flutter and sigh,Being as images of the flameThat shall make earth and heaven the sameWhen the fire of the end reddens the sky,And the world consumes like a burning pall,Till where there is nothing, there is all.So we looked up at the tall thin manAnd we saw that his face grew sad and wan:Tears were glistening in his eyes:At last, with a breaking sob, he bentHis head upon his breast and wentSwiftly away! With dreadful criesWe rushed to the softly glimmering doorAnd stared at the hideous corridorBut his robe was gone as a dream that flies:Back to the glass in terror we came,And stared at the writing round the frame.We could not understand one word:And suddenly we thought we heardThe hissing of the snakes again:How could we front them all alone?O, madly we clutched at the mirrored stoneAnd wished we were back on the flowery plain:And swifter than thought and swift as fearThe whole world flashed, and behold we were there.Yes; there was the port of Old Japan,With its twisted patterns, white and wan,Shining like a mottled fanSpread by the blue sea, faint and far;And far away we heard once moreA sound of singing on the shore,Where boys in blue kimonos boreRoses in a golden jar:And we heard, where the cherry orchards blow,The serpent-charmers fluting low,And the song of the maidens of Miyako.And at our feet unbroken layThe glass that had whirled us thither away:And in the grass, among the flowersWe sat and wished all sorts of things:O, we were wealthier than kings!We ruled the world for several hours!And then, it seemed, we knew not why,All the daisies began to die.We wished them alive again; but soonThe trees all fled up towards the moonLike peacocks through the sunlit air:And the butterflies flapped into silver fish;And each wish spoiled another wish;Till we threw the glass down in despair;For, getting whatever you want to get,Is like drinking tea from a fishing net.At last we thought we’d wish once moreThat all should be as it was before;And then we’d shatter the glass, if we could;But just as the world grew right again,We heard a wanderer out on the plainSinging what none of us understood;Yet we thought that the world grew thrice more sweetAnd the meadows were blossoming under his feet.And we felt a grand and beautiful fear,For we knew that a marvellous thought drew near;So we kept the glass for a little while:And the skies grew deeper and twice as bright,And the seas grew soft as a flower of light,And the meadows rippled from stile to stile;And memories danced in a musical throngThro’ the blossom that scented the wonderful song.
Thewhite moon dawned; the sunset died;And stars were trembling when we spiedThe rose-red temple of our dreams:Its lamp-lit gardens glimmered coolWith many an onyx-paven pool,Amid soft sounds of flowing streams;Where star-shine shimmered through the whiteTall fountain-shafts of crystal lightIn ever changing rainbow-gleams.Priests in flowing yellow robesGlided under rosy globes;Through the green pomegranate boughsMoonbeams poured their coloured rain;Roofs of sea-green porcelainJutted o’er the rose-red house;Bells were hung beneath its eaves;Every wind that stirred the leavesTinkled as tired water does.The temple had a low broad baseOf black bright marble; all its faceWas marble bright in rosy bloom;And where two sea-green pillars roseDeep in the flower-soft eave-shadowsWe saw, thro’ richly sparkling gloom,Wrought in marvellous years of oldWith bulls and peacocks bossed in gold,The doors of powdered lacquer loom.Quietly then the tall thin man,Holding his turquoise-tinted fan,Alighted from the palanquin;We followed: never painter dreamedOf how that dark rich temple gleamedWith gules of jewelled gloom within;And as we wondered near the doorA priest came o’er the polished floorIn sandals of soft serpent-skin;His mitre shimmered bright and blueWith pigeon’s breast-plumes. When he knewOur quest he stroked his broad white chin,And looked at us with slanting eyesAnd smiled; then through his deep disguiseWe knew him! It was Creeping Sin!But cunningly he bowed his headDown on his gilded breast and saidCome: and he led us through the duskOf passages whose painted wallsGleamed with dark old festivals;Till where the gloom grew sweet with muskAnd incense, through a door of amberWe came into a high-arched chamber.There on a throne of jasper satA monstrous idol, black and fat;Thick rose-oil dropped upon its head:Drop by drop, heavy and sweet,Trickled down to its ebon feetWhereon the blood of goats was shed,And smeared around its perfumed kneesIn savage midnight mysteries.It wore about its bulging waistA belt of dark green bronze enchasedWith big, soft, cloudy pearls; its wristsWere clasped about with moony gemsGathered from dead kings’ diadems;Its throat was ringed with amethysts,And in its awful hand it heldA softly smouldering emerald.Silkily murmured Creeping Sin,“This is the stone you wished to win!”“White Snake,” replied the tall thin man,“Show us the Ruby Stone, or IWill slay thee with my hands.” The slyLong eyelids of the priest beganTo slant aside; and then once moreHe led us through the fragrant door.And now along the passage wallsWere painted hideous animals,With hooded eyes and cloven stings:In the incense that like shadowy hairStreamed over them they seemed to stirTheir craggy claws and crooked wings.At last we saw strange moon-wreaths curlAround a deep, soft porch of pearl.O, what enchanter wove in dreamsThat chapel wild with shadowy gleamsAnd prismy colours of the moon?Shrined like a rainbow in a mistOf flowers, the fretted amethystArches rose to a mystic tune;And never mortal art inlaidThose cloudy floors of sea-soft jade.There, in the midst, an idol roseWhite as the silent starlit snowsOn lonely Himalayan heights:Over its head the spikenard spilledDown to its feet, with myrrh distilledIn distant, odorous Indian nights:It held before its ivory faceA flaming yellow chrysoprase.O, silkily murmured Creeping Sin,“This is the stone you wished to win.”But in his ear the tall thin manWhispered with slow, strange lips—we knewNot what, but Creeping Sin went blueWith fear; again his eyes beganTo slant aside; then through the porchHe passed, and lit a tall, brown torch.Down a corridor dark as death,With beating hearts and bated breathWe hurried; far away we heardA dreadful hissing, fierce as fireWhen rain begins to quench a pyre;And where the smoky torch-light flaredStrange vermin beat their bat-like wings,And the wet walls dropped with slimy things.And darker, darker, wound the way,Beyond all gleams of night and day,And still that hideous hissing grewLouder and louder on our ears,And tortured us with eyeless fears;Then suddenly the gloom turned blue,And, in the wall, a rough rock caveGaped, like a phosphorescent grave.And from the purple mist withinThere came a wild tumultuous dinOf snakes that reared their heads andhissedAs if a witch’s cauldron boiled;All round the door great serpents coiled,With eyes of glowing amethyst,Whose fierce blue flames began to slideLike shooting stars from side to side.Ah! with a sickly gasping grinAnd quivering eyelids, Creeping SinStole to the cave; but, suddenly,As through its glimmering mouth he passed,The serpents flashed and gripped him fast:He wriggled and gave one awful cry,Then all at once the cave was cleared;The snakes with their victim had disappeared.And fearlessly the tall thin manOpened his turquoise-tinted fanAnd entered; and the mists grew bright,And we saw that the cave was a diamond hallLit with lamps for a festival.A myriad globes of coloured lightWent gliding deep in its massy sides,Like the shimmering moons in the glassy tidesWhere a sea-king’s palace enchants the night.Gliding and flowing, a glory and wonder,Through each other, and over, and under,The lucent orbs of green and gold,Bright with sorrow or soft with sleep,In music through the glimmering deep,Over their secret axles rolled,And circled by the murmuring spheresWe saw in a frame of frozen tearsA mirror that made the blood run cold.For, when we came to it, we foundIt imaged everything aroundExcept the face that gazed in it;And where the mirrored face should beA heart-shaped Ruby fierilySmouldered; and round the frame was writ,Mystery: Time and Tide shall pass,I am the Wisdom Looking-Glass.This is the Ruby none can touch:Many have loved it overmuch;Its fathomless fires flutter and sigh,Being as images of the flameThat shall make earth and heaven the sameWhen the fire of the end reddens the sky,And the world consumes like a burning pall,Till where there is nothing, there is all.So we looked up at the tall thin manAnd we saw that his face grew sad and wan:Tears were glistening in his eyes:At last, with a breaking sob, he bentHis head upon his breast and wentSwiftly away! With dreadful criesWe rushed to the softly glimmering doorAnd stared at the hideous corridorBut his robe was gone as a dream that flies:Back to the glass in terror we came,And stared at the writing round the frame.We could not understand one word:And suddenly we thought we heardThe hissing of the snakes again:How could we front them all alone?O, madly we clutched at the mirrored stoneAnd wished we were back on the flowery plain:And swifter than thought and swift as fearThe whole world flashed, and behold we were there.Yes; there was the port of Old Japan,With its twisted patterns, white and wan,Shining like a mottled fanSpread by the blue sea, faint and far;And far away we heard once moreA sound of singing on the shore,Where boys in blue kimonos boreRoses in a golden jar:And we heard, where the cherry orchards blow,The serpent-charmers fluting low,And the song of the maidens of Miyako.And at our feet unbroken layThe glass that had whirled us thither away:And in the grass, among the flowersWe sat and wished all sorts of things:O, we were wealthier than kings!We ruled the world for several hours!And then, it seemed, we knew not why,All the daisies began to die.We wished them alive again; but soonThe trees all fled up towards the moonLike peacocks through the sunlit air:And the butterflies flapped into silver fish;And each wish spoiled another wish;Till we threw the glass down in despair;For, getting whatever you want to get,Is like drinking tea from a fishing net.At last we thought we’d wish once moreThat all should be as it was before;And then we’d shatter the glass, if we could;But just as the world grew right again,We heard a wanderer out on the plainSinging what none of us understood;Yet we thought that the world grew thrice more sweetAnd the meadows were blossoming under his feet.And we felt a grand and beautiful fear,For we knew that a marvellous thought drew near;So we kept the glass for a little while:And the skies grew deeper and twice as bright,And the seas grew soft as a flower of light,And the meadows rippled from stile to stile;And memories danced in a musical throngThro’ the blossom that scented the wonderful song.
Thewhite moon dawned; the sunset died;And stars were trembling when we spiedThe rose-red temple of our dreams:Its lamp-lit gardens glimmered coolWith many an onyx-paven pool,Amid soft sounds of flowing streams;Where star-shine shimmered through the whiteTall fountain-shafts of crystal lightIn ever changing rainbow-gleams.
Priests in flowing yellow robesGlided under rosy globes;Through the green pomegranate boughsMoonbeams poured their coloured rain;Roofs of sea-green porcelainJutted o’er the rose-red house;Bells were hung beneath its eaves;Every wind that stirred the leavesTinkled as tired water does.
The temple had a low broad baseOf black bright marble; all its faceWas marble bright in rosy bloom;And where two sea-green pillars roseDeep in the flower-soft eave-shadowsWe saw, thro’ richly sparkling gloom,Wrought in marvellous years of oldWith bulls and peacocks bossed in gold,The doors of powdered lacquer loom.
Quietly then the tall thin man,Holding his turquoise-tinted fan,Alighted from the palanquin;We followed: never painter dreamedOf how that dark rich temple gleamedWith gules of jewelled gloom within;And as we wondered near the doorA priest came o’er the polished floorIn sandals of soft serpent-skin;His mitre shimmered bright and blueWith pigeon’s breast-plumes. When he knewOur quest he stroked his broad white chin,And looked at us with slanting eyesAnd smiled; then through his deep disguiseWe knew him! It was Creeping Sin!
But cunningly he bowed his headDown on his gilded breast and saidCome: and he led us through the duskOf passages whose painted wallsGleamed with dark old festivals;Till where the gloom grew sweet with muskAnd incense, through a door of amberWe came into a high-arched chamber.
There on a throne of jasper satA monstrous idol, black and fat;Thick rose-oil dropped upon its head:Drop by drop, heavy and sweet,Trickled down to its ebon feetWhereon the blood of goats was shed,And smeared around its perfumed kneesIn savage midnight mysteries.
It wore about its bulging waistA belt of dark green bronze enchasedWith big, soft, cloudy pearls; its wristsWere clasped about with moony gemsGathered from dead kings’ diadems;Its throat was ringed with amethysts,And in its awful hand it heldA softly smouldering emerald.
Silkily murmured Creeping Sin,“This is the stone you wished to win!”“White Snake,” replied the tall thin man,“Show us the Ruby Stone, or IWill slay thee with my hands.” The slyLong eyelids of the priest beganTo slant aside; and then once moreHe led us through the fragrant door.
And now along the passage wallsWere painted hideous animals,With hooded eyes and cloven stings:In the incense that like shadowy hairStreamed over them they seemed to stirTheir craggy claws and crooked wings.At last we saw strange moon-wreaths curlAround a deep, soft porch of pearl.
O, what enchanter wove in dreamsThat chapel wild with shadowy gleamsAnd prismy colours of the moon?Shrined like a rainbow in a mistOf flowers, the fretted amethystArches rose to a mystic tune;And never mortal art inlaidThose cloudy floors of sea-soft jade.
There, in the midst, an idol roseWhite as the silent starlit snowsOn lonely Himalayan heights:Over its head the spikenard spilledDown to its feet, with myrrh distilledIn distant, odorous Indian nights:It held before its ivory faceA flaming yellow chrysoprase.
O, silkily murmured Creeping Sin,“This is the stone you wished to win.”But in his ear the tall thin manWhispered with slow, strange lips—we knewNot what, but Creeping Sin went blueWith fear; again his eyes beganTo slant aside; then through the porchHe passed, and lit a tall, brown torch.
Down a corridor dark as death,With beating hearts and bated breathWe hurried; far away we heardA dreadful hissing, fierce as fireWhen rain begins to quench a pyre;And where the smoky torch-light flaredStrange vermin beat their bat-like wings,And the wet walls dropped with slimy things.
And darker, darker, wound the way,Beyond all gleams of night and day,And still that hideous hissing grewLouder and louder on our ears,And tortured us with eyeless fears;Then suddenly the gloom turned blue,And, in the wall, a rough rock caveGaped, like a phosphorescent grave.
And from the purple mist withinThere came a wild tumultuous dinOf snakes that reared their heads andhissedAs if a witch’s cauldron boiled;All round the door great serpents coiled,With eyes of glowing amethyst,Whose fierce blue flames began to slideLike shooting stars from side to side.
Ah! with a sickly gasping grinAnd quivering eyelids, Creeping SinStole to the cave; but, suddenly,As through its glimmering mouth he passed,The serpents flashed and gripped him fast:He wriggled and gave one awful cry,Then all at once the cave was cleared;The snakes with their victim had disappeared.
And fearlessly the tall thin manOpened his turquoise-tinted fanAnd entered; and the mists grew bright,And we saw that the cave was a diamond hallLit with lamps for a festival.A myriad globes of coloured lightWent gliding deep in its massy sides,Like the shimmering moons in the glassy tidesWhere a sea-king’s palace enchants the night.
Gliding and flowing, a glory and wonder,Through each other, and over, and under,The lucent orbs of green and gold,Bright with sorrow or soft with sleep,In music through the glimmering deep,Over their secret axles rolled,And circled by the murmuring spheresWe saw in a frame of frozen tearsA mirror that made the blood run cold.
For, when we came to it, we foundIt imaged everything aroundExcept the face that gazed in it;And where the mirrored face should beA heart-shaped Ruby fierilySmouldered; and round the frame was writ,Mystery: Time and Tide shall pass,I am the Wisdom Looking-Glass.This is the Ruby none can touch:Many have loved it overmuch;Its fathomless fires flutter and sigh,Being as images of the flameThat shall make earth and heaven the sameWhen the fire of the end reddens the sky,And the world consumes like a burning pall,Till where there is nothing, there is all.
So we looked up at the tall thin manAnd we saw that his face grew sad and wan:Tears were glistening in his eyes:At last, with a breaking sob, he bentHis head upon his breast and wentSwiftly away! With dreadful criesWe rushed to the softly glimmering doorAnd stared at the hideous corridorBut his robe was gone as a dream that flies:Back to the glass in terror we came,And stared at the writing round the frame.
We could not understand one word:And suddenly we thought we heardThe hissing of the snakes again:How could we front them all alone?O, madly we clutched at the mirrored stoneAnd wished we were back on the flowery plain:And swifter than thought and swift as fearThe whole world flashed, and behold we were there.
Yes; there was the port of Old Japan,With its twisted patterns, white and wan,Shining like a mottled fanSpread by the blue sea, faint and far;And far away we heard once moreA sound of singing on the shore,Where boys in blue kimonos boreRoses in a golden jar:And we heard, where the cherry orchards blow,The serpent-charmers fluting low,And the song of the maidens of Miyako.
And at our feet unbroken layThe glass that had whirled us thither away:And in the grass, among the flowersWe sat and wished all sorts of things:O, we were wealthier than kings!We ruled the world for several hours!And then, it seemed, we knew not why,All the daisies began to die.
We wished them alive again; but soonThe trees all fled up towards the moonLike peacocks through the sunlit air:And the butterflies flapped into silver fish;And each wish spoiled another wish;Till we threw the glass down in despair;For, getting whatever you want to get,Is like drinking tea from a fishing net.
At last we thought we’d wish once moreThat all should be as it was before;And then we’d shatter the glass, if we could;But just as the world grew right again,We heard a wanderer out on the plainSinging what none of us understood;Yet we thought that the world grew thrice more sweetAnd the meadows were blossoming under his feet.
And we felt a grand and beautiful fear,For we knew that a marvellous thought drew near;So we kept the glass for a little while:And the skies grew deeper and twice as bright,And the seas grew soft as a flower of light,And the meadows rippled from stile to stile;And memories danced in a musical throngThro’ the blossom that scented the wonderful song.
We sailed across the silver seasAnd saw the sea-blue bowers,We saw the purple cherry trees,And all the foreign flowers,We travelled in a palanquinBeyond the caravan,And yet our hearts had never seenThe Flower of Old Japan.The Flower above all other flowers,The Flower that never dies;Before whose throne the scented hoursOffer their sacrifice;The Flower that here on earth belowReveals the heavenly plan;But only little children knowThe Flower of Old Japan.There, in the dim blue flowery plainWe wished with the magic glass againTo go to the Flower of the song’s desire:And o’er us the whole of the soft blue skyFlashed like fire as the world went by,And far beneath us the sea like fireFlashed in one swift blue brilliant stream,And the journey was done, like a change in a dream.
We sailed across the silver seasAnd saw the sea-blue bowers,We saw the purple cherry trees,And all the foreign flowers,We travelled in a palanquinBeyond the caravan,And yet our hearts had never seenThe Flower of Old Japan.The Flower above all other flowers,The Flower that never dies;Before whose throne the scented hoursOffer their sacrifice;The Flower that here on earth belowReveals the heavenly plan;But only little children knowThe Flower of Old Japan.There, in the dim blue flowery plainWe wished with the magic glass againTo go to the Flower of the song’s desire:And o’er us the whole of the soft blue skyFlashed like fire as the world went by,And far beneath us the sea like fireFlashed in one swift blue brilliant stream,And the journey was done, like a change in a dream.
We sailed across the silver seasAnd saw the sea-blue bowers,We saw the purple cherry trees,And all the foreign flowers,We travelled in a palanquinBeyond the caravan,And yet our hearts had never seenThe Flower of Old Japan.
The Flower above all other flowers,The Flower that never dies;Before whose throne the scented hoursOffer their sacrifice;The Flower that here on earth belowReveals the heavenly plan;But only little children knowThe Flower of Old Japan.
There, in the dim blue flowery plainWe wished with the magic glass againTo go to the Flower of the song’s desire:And o’er us the whole of the soft blue skyFlashed like fire as the world went by,And far beneath us the sea like fireFlashed in one swift blue brilliant stream,And the journey was done, like a change in a dream.
Likethe dawn upon a dreamSlowly through the scented gloomCrept once more the ruddy gleamO’er the friendly nursery room.There, before our waking eyes,Large and ghostly, white and dim,Dreamed the Flower that never dies,Opening wide its rosy rim.Spreading like a ghostly fan,Petals white as porcelain,There the Flower of Old JapanTold us we were home again;For a soft and curious lightSuddenly was o’er it shed,And we saw it was a whiteEnglish daisy, ringed with red.Slowly, as a wavering mistWaned the wonder out of sight,To a sigh of amethyst,To a wraith of scented light.Flower and magic glass had gone;Near the clutching fire we satDreaming, dreaming, all alone,Each upon a furry mat.While the firelight, red and clear,Fluttered in the black wet pane,It was very good to hearHowling winds and trotting rain.For we found at last we knewMore than all our fancy planned,All the fairy tales were true,And home the heart of fairyland.
Likethe dawn upon a dreamSlowly through the scented gloomCrept once more the ruddy gleamO’er the friendly nursery room.There, before our waking eyes,Large and ghostly, white and dim,Dreamed the Flower that never dies,Opening wide its rosy rim.Spreading like a ghostly fan,Petals white as porcelain,There the Flower of Old JapanTold us we were home again;For a soft and curious lightSuddenly was o’er it shed,And we saw it was a whiteEnglish daisy, ringed with red.Slowly, as a wavering mistWaned the wonder out of sight,To a sigh of amethyst,To a wraith of scented light.Flower and magic glass had gone;Near the clutching fire we satDreaming, dreaming, all alone,Each upon a furry mat.While the firelight, red and clear,Fluttered in the black wet pane,It was very good to hearHowling winds and trotting rain.For we found at last we knewMore than all our fancy planned,All the fairy tales were true,And home the heart of fairyland.
Likethe dawn upon a dreamSlowly through the scented gloomCrept once more the ruddy gleamO’er the friendly nursery room.There, before our waking eyes,Large and ghostly, white and dim,Dreamed the Flower that never dies,Opening wide its rosy rim.
Spreading like a ghostly fan,Petals white as porcelain,There the Flower of Old JapanTold us we were home again;For a soft and curious lightSuddenly was o’er it shed,And we saw it was a whiteEnglish daisy, ringed with red.
Slowly, as a wavering mistWaned the wonder out of sight,To a sigh of amethyst,To a wraith of scented light.Flower and magic glass had gone;Near the clutching fire we satDreaming, dreaming, all alone,Each upon a furry mat.
While the firelight, red and clear,Fluttered in the black wet pane,It was very good to hearHowling winds and trotting rain.For we found at last we knewMore than all our fancy planned,All the fairy tales were true,And home the heart of fairyland.
>Carol, every violet hasHeaven for a looking-glass!Every little valley liesUnder many-clouded skies;Every little cottage standsGirt about with boundless lands;Every little glimmering pondClaims the mighty shores beyond;Shores no seaman ever hailed,Seas no ship has ever sailed.All the shores when day is doneFade into the setting sun,So the story tries to teachMore than can be told in speech.Beauty is a fading flower,Truth is but a wizard’s tower,Where a solemn death-bell tolls,And a forest round it rolls.We have come by curious waysTo the Light that holds the days;We have sought in haunts of fearFor that all-enfolding sphere:And lo! it was not far, but near.We have found, O foolish-fond,The shore that has no shore beyond.Deep in every heart it liesWith its untranscended skies;For what heaven should bend aboveHearts that own the heaven of love?Carol, Carol, we have comeBack to heaven, back to home.
>Carol, every violet hasHeaven for a looking-glass!Every little valley liesUnder many-clouded skies;Every little cottage standsGirt about with boundless lands;Every little glimmering pondClaims the mighty shores beyond;Shores no seaman ever hailed,Seas no ship has ever sailed.All the shores when day is doneFade into the setting sun,So the story tries to teachMore than can be told in speech.Beauty is a fading flower,Truth is but a wizard’s tower,Where a solemn death-bell tolls,And a forest round it rolls.We have come by curious waysTo the Light that holds the days;We have sought in haunts of fearFor that all-enfolding sphere:And lo! it was not far, but near.We have found, O foolish-fond,The shore that has no shore beyond.Deep in every heart it liesWith its untranscended skies;For what heaven should bend aboveHearts that own the heaven of love?Carol, Carol, we have comeBack to heaven, back to home.
>Carol, every violet hasHeaven for a looking-glass!
Every little valley liesUnder many-clouded skies;Every little cottage standsGirt about with boundless lands;Every little glimmering pondClaims the mighty shores beyond;Shores no seaman ever hailed,Seas no ship has ever sailed.
All the shores when day is doneFade into the setting sun,So the story tries to teachMore than can be told in speech.
Beauty is a fading flower,Truth is but a wizard’s tower,Where a solemn death-bell tolls,And a forest round it rolls.
We have come by curious waysTo the Light that holds the days;We have sought in haunts of fearFor that all-enfolding sphere:And lo! it was not far, but near.
We have found, O foolish-fond,The shore that has no shore beyond.
Deep in every heart it liesWith its untranscended skies;For what heaven should bend aboveHearts that own the heaven of love?
Carol, Carol, we have comeBack to heaven, back to home.
ToHELEN, ROSIEandBEATRIX
Critics, you have been so kind,I would not have you think me blindTo all the wisdom that you preach;Yet before I strictlier runIn straiter lines of chiselled speech,Give me one more hour, just oneHour to hunt the fairy gleamThat flutters through this childish dream.It mocks me as it flies, I know:All too soon the gleam will go;Yet I love it and shall loveMy dream that brooks no narrower barsThan bind the darkening heavens above,My Jack o’Lanthorn of the stars:Then, I’ll follow it no more,I’ll light the lamp: I’ll close the door.
Critics, you have been so kind,I would not have you think me blindTo all the wisdom that you preach;Yet before I strictlier runIn straiter lines of chiselled speech,Give me one more hour, just oneHour to hunt the fairy gleamThat flutters through this childish dream.It mocks me as it flies, I know:All too soon the gleam will go;Yet I love it and shall loveMy dream that brooks no narrower barsThan bind the darkening heavens above,My Jack o’Lanthorn of the stars:Then, I’ll follow it no more,I’ll light the lamp: I’ll close the door.
Critics, you have been so kind,I would not have you think me blindTo all the wisdom that you preach;Yet before I strictlier runIn straiter lines of chiselled speech,Give me one more hour, just oneHour to hunt the fairy gleamThat flutters through this childish dream.
It mocks me as it flies, I know:All too soon the gleam will go;Yet I love it and shall loveMy dream that brooks no narrower barsThan bind the darkening heavens above,My Jack o’Lanthorn of the stars:Then, I’ll follow it no more,I’ll light the lamp: I’ll close the door.
Hush! if you remember how we sailed to old Japan,Peterkin was with us then, our little brother Peterkin!Now we’ve lost him, so they say: I think the tall thin manMust have come and touched him with his curious twinkling fanAnd taken him away again, our merry little Peterkin;He’ll be frightened all alone; we’ll find him if we can;Come and look for Peterkin, poor little Peterkin.No one would believe us if we told them what we know,Or they wouldn’t grieve for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin;If they’d only watched us roaming through the streets of Miyako,And travelling in a palanquin where parents never go,And seen the golden gardens where we wandered once with Peterkin,And smelt the purple orchards where the cherry-blossoms blow,They wouldn’t mourn for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin.Put away your muskets, lay aside the drum,Hang it by the wooden sword we made for little Peterkin!He was once our trumpeter, now his bugle’s dumb,Pile your arms beneath it, for the owlet light is come,We’ll wander through the roses where we marched of old with Peterkin,We’ll search the summer sunset where the Hybla beehives hum,And—if we meet a fairy there—we’ll ask for news of Peterkin.He was once our cabin-boy and cooked the sweets for tea;And O, we’ve sailed around the world with laughing little Peterkin;From nursery floor to pantry door we’ve roamed the mighty sea,And come to port below the stairs in distant Caribee,But wheresoe’er we sailed we took our little lubber Peterkin,Because his wide grey eyes believed much more than ours could see,And so we liked our Peterkin, our trusty little Peterkin.Peterkin, Peterkin, I think if you came backThe captain of our host to-day should be the bugler Peterkin,And he should lead our smugglers up that steep and narrow track,A band of noble brigands, bearing each a mighty packCrammed with lace and jewels to the secret cave of Peterkin,And he should wear the biggest boots and make his pistol crack,—The Spanish cloak, the velvet mask, we’d give them all to Peterkin.Come, my brother pirates, I am tired of play;Come and look for Peterkin, little brother Peterkin,Our merry little comrade that the fairies took away,For people think we’ve lost him, and when we come to sayOur good-night prayers to mother, if we pray for little PeterkinHer eyes are very sorrowful, she turns her head away.Come and look for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin.God bless little Peterkin, wherever he may be!Come and look for Peterkin, lonely little Peterkin:I wonder if they’ve taken him again across the seaFrom the town of Wonder-Wander and the Amfalula treeTo the land of many marvels where we roamed of old with Peterkin,The land of blue pagodas and the flowery fields of tea!Come and look for Peterkin, poor little Peterkin.
Hush! if you remember how we sailed to old Japan,Peterkin was with us then, our little brother Peterkin!Now we’ve lost him, so they say: I think the tall thin manMust have come and touched him with his curious twinkling fanAnd taken him away again, our merry little Peterkin;He’ll be frightened all alone; we’ll find him if we can;Come and look for Peterkin, poor little Peterkin.No one would believe us if we told them what we know,Or they wouldn’t grieve for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin;If they’d only watched us roaming through the streets of Miyako,And travelling in a palanquin where parents never go,And seen the golden gardens where we wandered once with Peterkin,And smelt the purple orchards where the cherry-blossoms blow,They wouldn’t mourn for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin.Put away your muskets, lay aside the drum,Hang it by the wooden sword we made for little Peterkin!He was once our trumpeter, now his bugle’s dumb,Pile your arms beneath it, for the owlet light is come,We’ll wander through the roses where we marched of old with Peterkin,We’ll search the summer sunset where the Hybla beehives hum,And—if we meet a fairy there—we’ll ask for news of Peterkin.He was once our cabin-boy and cooked the sweets for tea;And O, we’ve sailed around the world with laughing little Peterkin;From nursery floor to pantry door we’ve roamed the mighty sea,And come to port below the stairs in distant Caribee,But wheresoe’er we sailed we took our little lubber Peterkin,Because his wide grey eyes believed much more than ours could see,And so we liked our Peterkin, our trusty little Peterkin.Peterkin, Peterkin, I think if you came backThe captain of our host to-day should be the bugler Peterkin,And he should lead our smugglers up that steep and narrow track,A band of noble brigands, bearing each a mighty packCrammed with lace and jewels to the secret cave of Peterkin,And he should wear the biggest boots and make his pistol crack,—The Spanish cloak, the velvet mask, we’d give them all to Peterkin.Come, my brother pirates, I am tired of play;Come and look for Peterkin, little brother Peterkin,Our merry little comrade that the fairies took away,For people think we’ve lost him, and when we come to sayOur good-night prayers to mother, if we pray for little PeterkinHer eyes are very sorrowful, she turns her head away.Come and look for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin.God bless little Peterkin, wherever he may be!Come and look for Peterkin, lonely little Peterkin:I wonder if they’ve taken him again across the seaFrom the town of Wonder-Wander and the Amfalula treeTo the land of many marvels where we roamed of old with Peterkin,The land of blue pagodas and the flowery fields of tea!Come and look for Peterkin, poor little Peterkin.
Hush! if you remember how we sailed to old Japan,Peterkin was with us then, our little brother Peterkin!Now we’ve lost him, so they say: I think the tall thin manMust have come and touched him with his curious twinkling fanAnd taken him away again, our merry little Peterkin;He’ll be frightened all alone; we’ll find him if we can;Come and look for Peterkin, poor little Peterkin.
No one would believe us if we told them what we know,Or they wouldn’t grieve for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin;If they’d only watched us roaming through the streets of Miyako,And travelling in a palanquin where parents never go,And seen the golden gardens where we wandered once with Peterkin,And smelt the purple orchards where the cherry-blossoms blow,They wouldn’t mourn for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin.
Put away your muskets, lay aside the drum,Hang it by the wooden sword we made for little Peterkin!
He was once our trumpeter, now his bugle’s dumb,Pile your arms beneath it, for the owlet light is come,We’ll wander through the roses where we marched of old with Peterkin,We’ll search the summer sunset where the Hybla beehives hum,And—if we meet a fairy there—we’ll ask for news of Peterkin.
He was once our cabin-boy and cooked the sweets for tea;And O, we’ve sailed around the world with laughing little Peterkin;From nursery floor to pantry door we’ve roamed the mighty sea,And come to port below the stairs in distant Caribee,But wheresoe’er we sailed we took our little lubber Peterkin,Because his wide grey eyes believed much more than ours could see,And so we liked our Peterkin, our trusty little Peterkin.
Peterkin, Peterkin, I think if you came backThe captain of our host to-day should be the bugler Peterkin,And he should lead our smugglers up that steep and narrow track,A band of noble brigands, bearing each a mighty packCrammed with lace and jewels to the secret cave of Peterkin,And he should wear the biggest boots and make his pistol crack,—The Spanish cloak, the velvet mask, we’d give them all to Peterkin.Come, my brother pirates, I am tired of play;Come and look for Peterkin, little brother Peterkin,Our merry little comrade that the fairies took away,For people think we’ve lost him, and when we come to sayOur good-night prayers to mother, if we pray for little PeterkinHer eyes are very sorrowful, she turns her head away.Come and look for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin.
God bless little Peterkin, wherever he may be!Come and look for Peterkin, lonely little Peterkin:I wonder if they’ve taken him again across the seaFrom the town of Wonder-Wander and the Amfalula treeTo the land of many marvels where we roamed of old with Peterkin,The land of blue pagodas and the flowery fields of tea!Come and look for Peterkin, poor little Peterkin.
Nowfather stood engaged in talkWith mother on that narrow walkBetween the laurels (where we playAt Red-skins lurking for their prey)And the grey old wall of rosesWhere the Persian kitten dozesAnd the sunlight sleeps uponCrannies of the crumbling stone—So hot it is you scarce can bearYour naked hand upon it there,Though there luxuriating in heatWith a slow and gorgeous beatWhite-winged currant-moths displayTheir spots of black and gold all day.—Well, since we greatly wished to knowWhether we too might some day goWhere little Peterkin had goneWithout one word and all alone,We crept up through the laurels thereHoping that we might overhearThe splendid secret, darkly great,Of Peterkin’s mysterious fate;And on what high adventure boundHe left our pleasant garden-ground,Whether for old Japan once moreHe voyaged from the dim blue shore,Or whether he set out to runBy candle-light to Babylon.We just missed something father saidAbout a young prince that was dead,A little warrior that had foughtAnd failed: how hopes were brought to noughtHe said, and mortals made to bowBefore the Juggernaut of Death,And all the world was darker now,For Time’s grey lips and icy breathHad blown out all the enchanted lightsThat burned in Love’s Arabian nights;And now he could not understandMother’s mystic fairy-land,“Land of the dead, poor fairy-tale,”He murmured, and her face grew pale,And then with great soft shining eyesShe leant to him—she looked so wise—And, with her cheek against his cheek,We heard her, ah so softly, speak.“Husband, there was a happy day,Long ago, in love’s young May,When with a wild-flower in your handYou echoed that dead poet’s cry—‘Little flower, but if I could understand!’And you saw it had roots in the depths of the sky,And there in that smallest bud lay furledThe secret and meaning of all the world.”He shook his head and then he triedTo kiss her, but she only criedAnd turned her face away and said,“You come between me and my dead!His soul is near me, night and day,But you would drive it far away;And you shall never kiss me nowUntil you lift that brave old browOf faith I know so well; or elseRefute the tale the skylark tells,Tarnish the glory of that May,Explain the Smallest Flower away.”And still he said, “Poor fairy-tales,How terribly their starlight palesBefore the solemn sun of truthThat rises o’er the grave of youth!”“Is heaven a fairy-tale?” she said,—And once again he shook his head;And yet we ne’er could understandWhy heaven shouldnotbe fairy-land,A part of heaven at least, and whyThe thought of it made mother cry,And why they went away so sad,And father still quite unforgiven,For what could children be but gladTo find a fairy-land in heaven?And as we talked it o’er we foundOur brains were really spinning round;But Dick, our eldest, late returnedFrom school, by all the lore he’d learnedDeclared that we should seek the lostSmallest Flower at any cost.For, since within its leaves lay furledThe secret of the whole wide world,He thought that we might learn thereinThe whereabouts of Peterkin;And, if we found the Flower, we knewFather would be forgiven, too;And mother’s kiss atone for allThe quarrel by the rose-hung wall;We knew not how, we knew not why,But Dick it was who bade us try,Dick made it all seem plain and clear,And Dick it is who helps us hereTo tell this tale of fairy-landIn words we scarce can understand.For ere another golden hourHad passed, our anxious parents foundWe’d left the scented garden-groundTo seek—the Smallest Flower.
Nowfather stood engaged in talkWith mother on that narrow walkBetween the laurels (where we playAt Red-skins lurking for their prey)And the grey old wall of rosesWhere the Persian kitten dozesAnd the sunlight sleeps uponCrannies of the crumbling stone—So hot it is you scarce can bearYour naked hand upon it there,Though there luxuriating in heatWith a slow and gorgeous beatWhite-winged currant-moths displayTheir spots of black and gold all day.—Well, since we greatly wished to knowWhether we too might some day goWhere little Peterkin had goneWithout one word and all alone,We crept up through the laurels thereHoping that we might overhearThe splendid secret, darkly great,Of Peterkin’s mysterious fate;And on what high adventure boundHe left our pleasant garden-ground,Whether for old Japan once moreHe voyaged from the dim blue shore,Or whether he set out to runBy candle-light to Babylon.We just missed something father saidAbout a young prince that was dead,A little warrior that had foughtAnd failed: how hopes were brought to noughtHe said, and mortals made to bowBefore the Juggernaut of Death,And all the world was darker now,For Time’s grey lips and icy breathHad blown out all the enchanted lightsThat burned in Love’s Arabian nights;And now he could not understandMother’s mystic fairy-land,“Land of the dead, poor fairy-tale,”He murmured, and her face grew pale,And then with great soft shining eyesShe leant to him—she looked so wise—And, with her cheek against his cheek,We heard her, ah so softly, speak.“Husband, there was a happy day,Long ago, in love’s young May,When with a wild-flower in your handYou echoed that dead poet’s cry—‘Little flower, but if I could understand!’And you saw it had roots in the depths of the sky,And there in that smallest bud lay furledThe secret and meaning of all the world.”He shook his head and then he triedTo kiss her, but she only criedAnd turned her face away and said,“You come between me and my dead!His soul is near me, night and day,But you would drive it far away;And you shall never kiss me nowUntil you lift that brave old browOf faith I know so well; or elseRefute the tale the skylark tells,Tarnish the glory of that May,Explain the Smallest Flower away.”And still he said, “Poor fairy-tales,How terribly their starlight palesBefore the solemn sun of truthThat rises o’er the grave of youth!”“Is heaven a fairy-tale?” she said,—And once again he shook his head;And yet we ne’er could understandWhy heaven shouldnotbe fairy-land,A part of heaven at least, and whyThe thought of it made mother cry,And why they went away so sad,And father still quite unforgiven,For what could children be but gladTo find a fairy-land in heaven?And as we talked it o’er we foundOur brains were really spinning round;But Dick, our eldest, late returnedFrom school, by all the lore he’d learnedDeclared that we should seek the lostSmallest Flower at any cost.For, since within its leaves lay furledThe secret of the whole wide world,He thought that we might learn thereinThe whereabouts of Peterkin;And, if we found the Flower, we knewFather would be forgiven, too;And mother’s kiss atone for allThe quarrel by the rose-hung wall;We knew not how, we knew not why,But Dick it was who bade us try,Dick made it all seem plain and clear,And Dick it is who helps us hereTo tell this tale of fairy-landIn words we scarce can understand.For ere another golden hourHad passed, our anxious parents foundWe’d left the scented garden-groundTo seek—the Smallest Flower.
Nowfather stood engaged in talkWith mother on that narrow walkBetween the laurels (where we playAt Red-skins lurking for their prey)And the grey old wall of rosesWhere the Persian kitten dozesAnd the sunlight sleeps uponCrannies of the crumbling stone—So hot it is you scarce can bearYour naked hand upon it there,Though there luxuriating in heatWith a slow and gorgeous beatWhite-winged currant-moths displayTheir spots of black and gold all day.—Well, since we greatly wished to knowWhether we too might some day goWhere little Peterkin had goneWithout one word and all alone,We crept up through the laurels thereHoping that we might overhearThe splendid secret, darkly great,Of Peterkin’s mysterious fate;And on what high adventure boundHe left our pleasant garden-ground,Whether for old Japan once moreHe voyaged from the dim blue shore,Or whether he set out to runBy candle-light to Babylon.
We just missed something father saidAbout a young prince that was dead,A little warrior that had foughtAnd failed: how hopes were brought to noughtHe said, and mortals made to bowBefore the Juggernaut of Death,And all the world was darker now,For Time’s grey lips and icy breathHad blown out all the enchanted lightsThat burned in Love’s Arabian nights;And now he could not understandMother’s mystic fairy-land,“Land of the dead, poor fairy-tale,”He murmured, and her face grew pale,And then with great soft shining eyesShe leant to him—she looked so wise—And, with her cheek against his cheek,We heard her, ah so softly, speak.
“Husband, there was a happy day,Long ago, in love’s young May,When with a wild-flower in your handYou echoed that dead poet’s cry—‘Little flower, but if I could understand!’And you saw it had roots in the depths of the sky,And there in that smallest bud lay furledThe secret and meaning of all the world.”
He shook his head and then he triedTo kiss her, but she only criedAnd turned her face away and said,“You come between me and my dead!His soul is near me, night and day,But you would drive it far away;And you shall never kiss me nowUntil you lift that brave old browOf faith I know so well; or elseRefute the tale the skylark tells,Tarnish the glory of that May,Explain the Smallest Flower away.”And still he said, “Poor fairy-tales,How terribly their starlight palesBefore the solemn sun of truthThat rises o’er the grave of youth!”
“Is heaven a fairy-tale?” she said,—And once again he shook his head;And yet we ne’er could understandWhy heaven shouldnotbe fairy-land,A part of heaven at least, and whyThe thought of it made mother cry,And why they went away so sad,And father still quite unforgiven,For what could children be but gladTo find a fairy-land in heaven?
And as we talked it o’er we foundOur brains were really spinning round;But Dick, our eldest, late returnedFrom school, by all the lore he’d learnedDeclared that we should seek the lostSmallest Flower at any cost.For, since within its leaves lay furledThe secret of the whole wide world,He thought that we might learn thereinThe whereabouts of Peterkin;And, if we found the Flower, we knewFather would be forgiven, too;And mother’s kiss atone for allThe quarrel by the rose-hung wall;We knew not how, we knew not why,But Dick it was who bade us try,Dick made it all seem plain and clear,And Dick it is who helps us hereTo tell this tale of fairy-landIn words we scarce can understand.For ere another golden hourHad passed, our anxious parents foundWe’d left the scented garden-groundTo seek—the Smallest Flower.