And almost to the feet came down A garment wove throughout; Such garment he had never seen In countries round about!

His eyes he lifted tremblingly Until a hand they spied: A chisel-scar on it he saw, And a deep, torn scar beside.

His eyes they leaped up to the face, His heart gave one wild bound, Then stood as if its work were done— The Master he had found!

With sudden clang the convent bell Told him the poor did wait His hand to give the daily bread Doled at the convent-gate.

Then Love rose in him passionate, And with Duty wrestled strong; And the bell kept calling all the time With merciless iron tongue.

The Master stood and looked at him He rose up with a sigh: "He will be gone when I come back I go to him by and by!"

He chid his heart, he fed the poor All at the convent-gate; Then with slow-dragging feet went back To his cell so desolate:

His heart bereaved by duty done, He had sore need of prayer! Oh, sad he lifted the latch!—and, lo, The Master standing there!

He said, "My poor had not to stand Wearily at thy gate: For him who feeds the shepherd's sheep The shepherd will stand and wait."

_Yet, Lord—for thou would'st have us judge, And I will humbly dare— If he had staid, I do not think Thou wouldst have left him there.

Thy voice in far-off time I hear, With sweet defending, say: "The poor ye always have with you, Me ye have not alway!"

Thou wouldst have said: "Go feed my poor, The deed thou shalt not rue; Wherever ye do my father's will I always am with you."_



A MEDITATION OF ST. ELIGIUS.

_Queen Mary one day Jesus sent To fetch some water, legends tell; The little boy, obedient, Drew a full pitcher from the well;

But as he raised it to his head, The water lipping with the rim, The handle broke, and all was shed Upon the stones about the brim.

His cloak upon the ground he laid And in it gathered up the pool; [Proverbs xxx. 4.] Obedient there the water staid, And home he bore it plentiful._

Eligius said, "Tis fabled ill: The hands that all the world control, Had here been room for miracle, Had made his mother's pitcher whole!

"Still, some few drops for thirsty need A poor invention even, when told In love of thee the Truth indeed, Like broken pitcher yet may hold:

"Thy truth, alas, Lord, once I spilt: I thought to bear the pitcher high; Upon the shining stones of guilt I slipped, and there the potsherds lie!

_"Master,_ I cried, _no man will drink, No human thirst will e'er be stilled Through me, who sit upon the brink, My pitcher broke, thy water spilled!

"What will they do I waiting left? They looked to me to bring thy law! The well is deep, and, sin-bereft, I nothing have wherewith to draw!"_

"But as I sat in evil plight, With dry parched heart and sickened brain, Uprose in me the water bright, Thou gavest me thyself again!"



THE EARLY BIRD.

A little bird sat on the edge of her nest; Her yellow-beaks slept as sound as tops; Day-long she had worked almost without rest, And had filled every one of their gibbous crops; Her own she had filled just over-full, And she felt like a dead bird stuffed with wool.

"Oh dear!" she sighed, as she sat with her head Sunk in her chest, and no neck at all, Looking like an apple on a feather-bed Poked and rounded and fluffed to a ball, "What's to be done if things don't reform? I cannot tell where there is one more worm!

"I've had fifteen to-day, and the children five each, Besides a few flies, and some very fat spiders: Who will dare say I don't do as I preach? I set an example to all providers! But what's the use? We want a storm: I don't know where there's a single worm!"

"There's five in my crop," chirped a wee, wee bird Who woke at the voice of his mother's pain; "I know where there's five!" And with the word He tucked in his head and went off again. "The folly of childhood," sighed his mother, "Has always been my especial bother!"

Careless the yellow-beaks slept on, They never had heard of the bogy, Tomorrow; The mother sat outside making her moan— "I shall soon have to beg, or steal, or borrow! I have always to say, the night before, Where shall I find one red worm more!"

Her case was this, she had gobbled too many, And sleepless, had an attack she called foresight: A barn of crumbs, if she knew but of any! Could she but get of the great worm-store sight! The eastern sky was growing red Ere she laid her wise beak in its feather-bed.

Just then, the fellow who knew of five, Nor troubled his sleep with anxious tricks, Woke, and stirred, and felt alive: "To-day," he said, "I am up to six! But my mother feels in her lot the crook— What if I tried my own little hook!"

When his mother awoke, she winked her eyes As if she had dreamed that she was a mole: Could she believe them? "What a huge prize That child is dragging out of its hole!" The fledgeling indeed had just caught his third! And here is a fable to catch the bird!



SIR LARK AND KING SUN.

"Good morrow, my lord!" in the sky alone Sang the lark as the sun ascended his throne. "Shine on me, my lord: I only am come, Of all your servants, to welcome you home! I have shot straight up, a whole hour, I swear, To catch the first gleam of your golden hair."

"Must I thank you then," said the king, "sir Lark, For flying so high and hating the dark? You ask a full cup for half a thirst: Half was love of me, half love to be first. Some of my subjects serve better my taste: Their watching and waiting means more than your haste."

King Sun wrapt his head in a turban of cloud; Sir Lark stopped singing, quite vexed and cowed; But higher he flew, for he thought, "Anon The wrath of the king will be over and gone; And, scattering his head-gear manifold, He will change my brown feathers to a glory of gold!"

He flew, with the strength of a lark he flew, But as he rose the cloud rose too; And not one gleam of the flashing hair Brought signal of favour across the air; And his wings felt withered and worn and old, For their feathers had had no chrism of gold.

Outwearied at length, and throbbing sore, The strong sun-seeker could do no more; He faltered and sank, then dropped like a stone Beside his nest, where, patient, alone, Sat his little wife on her little eggs, Keeping them warm with wings and legs.

Did I say alone? Ah, no such thing! There was the cloudless, the ray-crowned king! "Welcome, sir Lark!—You look tired!" said he; "Up is not always the best way to me: While you have been racing my turban gray, I have been shining where you would not stay!"

He had set a coronet round the nest; Its radiance foamed on the wife's little breast; And so glorious was she in russet gold That sir Lark for wonder and awe grew cold; He popped his head under her wing, and lay As still as a stone till king Sun went away.



THE OWL AND THE BELL.

Bing, Bim, Bang, Bome! Sang the Bell to himself in his house at home, High in the church-tower, lone and unseen, In a twilight of ivy, cool and green; With his Bing, Bing, Bim, Bing, Bang, Bome! Singing bass to himself in his house at home.

Said the Owl, on a shadowy ledge below, Like a glimmering ball of forgotten snow, "Pest on that fellow sitting up there, Always calling the people to prayer! He shatters my nerves with his Bing, Bang, Bome!—- Far too big in his house at home!

"I think I will move.—But it suits me well, And one may get used to it, who can tell!" So he slept again with all his might, Then woke and snooved out in the hush of night When the Bell was asleep in his house at home, Dreaming over his Bing, Bang, Bome!

For the Owl was born so poor and genteel What could he do but pick and steal? He scorned to work for honest bread— "Better have never been hatched!" he said. So his day was the night, for he dared not roam Till sleep had silenced the Bing, Bang, Bome!

When five greedy Owlets chipped the egg He wanted two beaks and another leg, And they ate the more that they did not sleep well: "It's their gizzards," said Owless; said Owl, "It's that Bell!" For they quivered like leaves of a wind-blown tome When the Bell bellowed out his Bing, Bang, Bome!

But the Bell began to throb with the fear Of bringing his house about his one ear; And his people came round it, quite a throng, To buttress the walls and make them strong: A full month he sat, and felt like a mome Not daring to shout his Bing, Bang, Bome!

Said the Owl to himself, and hissed as he said, "I trust in my heart the old fool is dead! No more will he scare church-mice with his bounce, And make them so thin they're scarce worth a pounce! Once I will see him ere he's laid in the loam, And shout in his ear Bing, Bim, Bang, Bome!"

"Hoo! hoo!" he cried, as he entered the steeple, "They've hanged him at last, the righteous people! His swollen tongue lolls out of his head! Hoo! hoo! at last the old brute is dead! There let him hang, the shapeless gnome, Choked with a throatful of Bing, Bang, Bome!"

He fluttered about him, singing Too-whoo! He flapped the poor Bell, and said, "Is that you? You that never would matters mince, Banging poor owls and making them wince? A fig for you now, in your great hall-dome! Too-whit is better than Bing, Bang, Bome!"

Still braver he grew, the downy, the dapper; He flew in and perched on the knob of the clapper, And shouted Too-whoo! An echo awoke Like a far-off ghostly Bing-Bang stroke: "Just so!" he cried; "I am quite at home! I will take his place with my Bing, Bang, Bome!"

He hissed with the scorn of his grand self-wonder, And thought the Bell's tremble his own great thunder: He sat the Jove of creation's fowl.— Bang! went the Bell—through the rope-hole the owl, A fluffy avalanche, light as foam, Loosed by the boom of the Bing, Bang, Bome!

He sat where he fell, as if he had meant it, Ready for any remark anent it. Said the eldest Owlet, "Pa, you were wrong; He's at it again with his vulgar song!" "Child," said the Owl, "of the mark you are wide: I brought him to life by perching inside."

"Why did you, my dear?" said his startled wife; "He has always been the plague of your life!" "I have given him a lesson of good for evil: Perhaps the old ruffian will now be civil!" The Owl sat righteous, he raised his comb. The Bell bawled on, Bing, Bim, Bang, Bome!



A MAMMON-MARRIAGE.

The croak of a raven hoar! A dog's howl, kennel-tied! Loud shuts the carriage-door: The two are away on their ghastly ride To Death's salt shore!

Where are the love and the grace? The bridegroom is thirsty and cold! The bride's skull sharpens her face! But the coachman is driving, jubilant, bold, The devil's pace.

The horses shivered and shook Waiting gaunt and haggard With sorry and evil look; But swift as a drunken wind they staggered 'Longst Lethe brook.

Long since, they ran no more; Heavily pulling they died On the sand of the hopeless shore Where never swelled or sank a tide, And the salt burns sore.

Flat their skeletons lie, White shadows on shining sand; The crusted reins go high To the crumbling coachman's bony hand On his knees awry.

Side by side, jarring no more, Day and night side by side, Each by a doorless door, Motionless sit the bridegroom and bride On the Dead-Sea-shore.



A SONG IN THE NIGHT.

A brown bird sang on a blossomy tree, Sang in the moonshine, merrily, Three little songs, one, two, and three, A song for his wife, for himself, and me.

He sang for his wife, sang low, sang high, Filling the moonlight that filled the sky; "Thee, thee, I love thee, heart alive! Thee, thee, thee, and thy round eggs five!"

He sang to himself, "What shall I do With this life that thrills me through and through! Glad is so glad that it turns to ache! Out with it, song, or my heart will break!"

He sang to me, "Man, do not fear Though the moon goes down and the dark is near; Listen my song and rest thine eyes; Let the moon go down that the sun may rise!"

I folded me up in the heart of his tune, And fell asleep with the sinking moon; I woke with the day's first golden gleam, And, lo, I had dreamed a precious dream!



LOVE'S HISTORY.

Love, the baby, Crept abroad to pluck a flower: One said, Yes, sir; one said, Maybe; One said, Wait the hour.

Love, the boy, Joined the youngsters at their play: But they gave him little joy, And he went away.

Love, the youth, Roamed the country, quiver-laden; From him fled away in sooth Many a man and maiden!

Love, the man, Sought a service all about; But they called him feeble, one They could do without.

Love, the aged, Walking, bowed, the shadeless miles, Read a volume many-paged, Full of tears and smiles.

Love, the weary, Tottered down the shelving road: At its foot, lo, Night, the starry, Meeting him from God!

"Love, the holy," Sang a music in her dome, Sang it softly, sang it slowly, "Love is coming home!"



THE LARK AND THE WIND.

In the air why such a ringing? On the earth why such a droning?

In the air the lark is singing; On the earth the wind is moaning.

"I am blest, in sunlight swinging!" "Sad am I: the world lies groaning!"

In the sky the lark kept singing; On the earth the wind kept moaning.



A DEAD HOUSE.

When the clock hath ceased to tick Soul-like in the gloomy hall; When the latch no more doth click Tongue-like in the red peach-wall; When no more come sounds of play, Mice nor children romping roam, Then looks down the eye of day On a dead house, not a home!

But when, like an old sun's ghost, Haunts her vault the spectral moon; When earth's margins all are lost, Melting shapes nigh merged in swoon, Then a sound—hark! there again!— No, 'tis not a nibbling mouse! 'Tis a ghost, unseen of men, Walking through the bare-floored house!

And with lightning on the stair To that silent upper room, With the thunder-shaken air Sudden gleaming into gloom, With a frost-wind whistling round, From the raging northern coasts, Then, mid sieging light and sound, All the house is live with ghosts!

Brother, is thy soul a cell Empty save of glittering motes, Where no live loves live and dwell, Only notions, things, and thoughts? Then thou wilt, when comes a Breath Tempest-shaking ridge and post, Find thyself alone with Death In a house where walks no ghost.



'BELL UPON ORGAN.

It's all very well, Said the Bell, To be the big Organ below! But the folk come and go, Said the Bell, And you never can tell What sort of person the Organ will blow! And, besides, it is much at the mercy of the weather For 'tis all made in pieces and glued together!

But up in my cell Next door to the sky, Said the Bell, I dwell Very high; And with glorious go I swing to and fro; I swing swift or slow, I swing as I please, With summons or knell; I swing at my ease, Said the Bell: Not the tallest of men Can reach up to touch me, To smirch me or smutch me, Or make me do what I would not be at! And, then, The weather can't cause me to shrink or increase: I chose to be made in one perfect piece!



MASTER AND BOY.

"WHO is this little one lying," Said Time, "at my garden-gate, Moaning and sobbing and crying, Out in the cold so late?"

"They lurked until we came near, Master and I," the child said, "Then caught me, with 'Welcome, New-year! Happy Year! Golden-head!'

"See Christmas-day, my Master, On the meadow a mile away! Father Time, make me run faster! I'm the Shadow of Christmas-day!"

"Run, my child; still he's in sight! Only look well to his track; Little Shadow, run like the light, He misses you at his back!"

Old Time sat down in the sun On a grave-stone—his legs were numb: "When the boy to his master has run," He said, "Heaven's New Year is come!"



THE CLOCK OF THE UNIVERSE.

A clock aeonian, steady and tall, With its back to creation's flaming wall, Stands at the foot of a dim, wide stair. Swing, swang, its pendulum goes, Swing—swang—here—there! Its tick and its tack like the sledge-hammer blows Of Tubal Cain, the mighty man! But they strike on the anvil of never an ear, On the heart of man and woman they fall, With an echo of blessing, an echo of ban; For each tick is a hope, each tack is a fear, Each tick is a Where, each tack a Not here, Each tick is a kiss, each tack is a blow, Each tick says Why, each tack I don't know. Swing, swang, the pendulum! Tick and tack, and go and come, With a haunting, far-off, dreamy hum, With a tick, tack, loud and dumb, Swings the pendulum.

Two hands, together joined in prayer, With a roll and a volley of spheric thunder; Two hands, in hope spread half asunder, An empty gulf of longing embrace; Two hands, wide apart as they can fare In a fear still coasting not touching Despair, But turning again, ever round to prayer: Two hands, human hands, pass with awful motion From isle to isle of the sapphire ocean.

The silent, surfaceless ocean-face Is filled with a brooding, hearkening grace; The stars dream in, and sink fainting out, And the sun and the moon go walking about, Walking about in it, solemn and slow, Solemn and slow, at a thinking pace, Walking about in it to and fro, Walking, walking about.

With open beak and half-open wing Ever with eagerness quivering, On the peak of the clock Stands a cock: Tip-toe stands the cock to crow— Golden cock with silver call Clear as trumpet tearing the sky! No one yet has heard him cry, Nor ever will till the hour supreme When Self on itself shall turn with a scream, What time the hands are joined on high In a hoping, despairing, speechless sigh, The perfect groan-prayer of the universe When the darkness clings and will not disperse Though the time is come, told ages ago, For the great white rose of the world to blow: —Tick, tack, to the waiting cock, Tick, tack, goes the aeon-clock!

A polar bear, golden and gray, Crawls and crawls around the top. Black and black as an Ethiop The great sea-serpent lies coiled beneath, Living, living, but does not breathe. For the crawling bear is so far away That he cannot hear, by night or day, The bourdon big of his deep bear-bass Roaring atop of the silent face, Else would he move, and none knows then What would befall the sons of men!

Eat up old Time, O raging Bear; Take Bald-head, and the children spare! Lie still, O Serpent, nor let one breath Stir thy pool and stay Time's death! Steady, Hands! for the noon is nigh: See the silvery ghost of the Dawning shy Low on the floor of the level sky! Warn for the strike, O blessed Clock; Gather thy clarion breath, gold Cock; Push on the month-figures, pale, weary-faced Moon; Tick, awful Pendulum, tick amain; And soon, oh, soon, Lord of life, and Father of boon, Give us our own in our arms again!

Then the great old clock to pieces will fall Sans groaning of axle or whirring of wheel. And away like a mist of the morning steal, To stand no more in creation's hall; Its mighty weights will fall down plumb Into the regions where all is dumb; No more will its hands, in horror or prayer, Be lifted or spread at the foot of the stair That springs aloft to the Father's room; Its tick and its tack, When?—Not now, Will cease, and its muffled groan below; Its sapphire face will dissolve away In the dawn of the perfect, love-potent day; The serpent and bear will be seen no more, Growling atop, or prone on the floor; And up the stair will run as they please The children to clasp the Father's knees.

O God, our father, Allhearts' All, Open the doors of thy clockless hall!



THE THORN IN THE FLESH.

Within my heart a worm had long been hid. I knew it not when I went down and chid Because some servants of my inner house Had not, I found, of late been doing well, But then I spied the horror hideous Dwelling defiant in the inmost cell— No, not the inmost, for there God did dwell! But the small monster, softly burrowing, Near by God's chamber had made itself a den, And lay in it and grew, the noisome thing! Aghast I prayed—'twas time I did pray then! But as I prayed it seemed the loathsome shape Grew livelier, and did so gnaw and scrape That I grew faint. Whereon to me he said— Some one, that is, who held my swimming head, "Lo, I am with thee: let him do his worst; The creature is, but not his work, accurst; Thou hating him, he is as a thing dead." Then I lay still, nor thought, only endured. At last I said, "Lo, now I am inured A burgess of Pain's town!" The pain grew worse. Then I cried out as if my heart would break. But he, whom, in the fretting, sickening ache, I had forgotten, spoke: "The law of the universe Is this," he said: "Weakness shall be the nurse Of strength. The help I had will serve thee too." So I took courage and did bear anew. At last, through bones and flesh and shrinking skin, Lo, the thing ate his way, and light came in, And the thing died. I knew then what it meant, And, turning, saw the Lord on whom I leant.



LYCABAS:

A name of the Year. Some say the word means a march of wolves, which wolves, running in single file, are the Months of the Year. Others say the word means the path of the light.

O ye months of the year, Are ye a march of wolves? Lycabas! Lycabas! twelve to growl and slay? Men hearken at night, and lie in fear, Some men hearken all day!

Lycabas, verily thou art a gallop of wolves, Gaunt gray wolves, gray months of the year, hunting in twelves, Running and howling, head to tail, In a single file, over the snow, A long low gliding of silent horror and fear! On and on, ghastly and drear, Not a head turning, not a foot swerving, ye go, Twelve making only a one-wolf track! Onward ye howl, and behind we wail; Wail behind your narrow and slack Wallowing line, and moan and weep, As ye draw it on, straight and deep, Thorough the night so swart! Behind you a desert, and eyes a-weary, A long, bare highway, stony and dreary, A hungry soul, and a wolf-cub wrapt, A live wolf-cub, sharp-toothed, steel-chapt, In the garment next the heart!

Lycabas! One of them hurt me sore! Two of them hurt and tore! Three of them made me bleed! The fourth did a terrible deed, Rent me the worst of the four! Rent me, and shook me, and tore, And ran away with a growl! Lycabas, if I feared you a jot, You, and your devils running in twelves, Black-mouthed, hell-throated, straight-going wolves, I would run like a wolf, I too, and howl! I live, and I fear you not.

But shall I not hate you, low-galloping wolves Hunting in ceaseless twelves? Ye have hunted away my lambs! Ye ran at them open-mouthed, And your mouths were gleamy-toothed, And their whiteness with red foam frothed, And your throats were a purple-black gulf: My lambs they fled, and they came not back! Lovely white lambs they were, alack! They fled afar and they left a track Which at night, when the lone sky clears, Glistens with Nature's tears! Many a shepherd scarce thinks of a lamb But he hears behind it the growl of a wolf, And behind that the wail of its dam!

They ran, nor cried, but fled From day's sweet pasture, from night's soft bed: Ah me, the look in their eyes! For behind them rushed the swallowing gulf, The maw of the growl-throated wolf, And they fled as the thing that speeds or dies: They looked not behind, But fled as over the grass the wind.

Oh my lambs, I would drop away Into a night that never saw day That so in your dear hearts you might say, "All is well for ever and aye!" Yet it was well to hurry away, To hurry from me, your shepherd gray: I had no sword to bite and slay, And the wolfy Months were on your track! It was well to start from work and play, It was well to hurry from me away— But why not once look back?

The wolves came panting down the lea— What was left you but somewhere flee! Ye saw the Shepherd that never grows old, Ye saw the great Shepherd, and him ye knew, And the wolves never once came near to you; For he saw you coming, threw down his crook, Ran, and his arms about you threw; He gathered you into his garment's fold, He kneeled, he gathered, he lifted you, And his bosom and arms were full of you. He has taken you home to his stronghold: Out of the castle of Love ye look; The castle of Love is now your home, From the garden of Love you will never roam, And the wolves no more shall flutter you.

Lycabas! Lycabas! For all your hunting and howling and cries, Your yelling of woe! and alas! For all your thin tongues and your fiery eyes, Your questing thorough the windy grass, Your gurgling gnar, and your horrent hair, And your white teeth that will not spare— Wolves, I fear you never a jot, Though you come at me with your mouths red-hot, Eyes of fury, and teeth that foam: Ye can do nothing but drive me home! Wolves, wolves, you will lie one day— Ye are lying even now, this very day, Wolves in twelves, gaunt and gray, At the feet of the Shepherd that leads the dams, At the feet of the Shepherd that carries the lambs!

And now that I see you with my mind's eye, What are you indeed? my mind revolves. Are you, are you verily wolves? I saw you only through twilight dark, Through rain and wind, and ill could mark! Now I come near—are you verily wolves? Ye have torn, but I never saw you slay! Me ye have torn, but I live to-day, Live, and hope to live ever and aye! Closer still let me look at you!— Black are your mouths, but your eyes are true!— Now, now I know you!—the Shepherd's sheep-dogs! Friends of us sheep on the moors and bogs, Lost so often in swamps and fogs! Dear creatures, forgive me; I did you wrong; You to the castle of Love belong: Forgive the sore heart that made sharp the tongue! Your swift-flying feet the Shepherd sends To gather the lambs, his little friends, And draw the sheep after for rich amends! Sharp are your teeth, my wolves divine, But loves and no hates in your deep eyes shine! No more will I call you evil names, No more assail you with untrue blames! Wake me with howling, check me with biting, Rouse up my strength for the holy fighting: Hunt me still back, nor let me stray Out of the infinite narrow way, The radiant march of the Lord of Light Home to the Father of Love and Might, Where each puts Thou in the place of I, And Love is the Law of Liberty.



BALLADS

THE UNSEEN MODEL.

Forth to his study the sculptor goes In a mood of lofty mirth: "Now shall the tongues of my carping foes Confess what my art is worth! In my brain last night the vision arose, To-morrow shall see its birth!"

He stood like a god; with creating hand He struck the formless clay: "Psyche, arise," he said, "and stand; In beauty confront the day. I have sought nor found thee in any land; I call thee: arise; obey!"

The sun was low in the eastern skies When spoke the confident youth; Sweet Psyche, all day, his hands and eyes Wiled from the clay uncouth, Nor ceased when the shadows came up like spies That dog the steps of Truth.

He said, "I will do my will in spite Of the rising dark; for, see, She grows to my hand! The mar-work night Shall hurry and hide and flee From the glow of my lamp and the making might That passeth out of me!"

In the flickering lamplight the figure swayed, In the shadows did melt and swim: With tool and thumb he modelled and made, Nor knew that feature and limb Half-obeying, half-disobeyed, And mocking eluded him.

At the dawning Psyche of his brain Joyous he wrought all night: The oil went low, and he trimmed in vain, The lamp would not burn bright; But he still wrought on: through the high roof-pane He saw the first faint light!

The dark retreated; the morning spread; His creatures their shapes resume; The plaster stares dumb-white and dead; A faint blue liquid bloom Lies on each marble bosom and head; To his Psyche clings the gloom.

Backward he stept to see the clay: His visage grew white and sear; No beauty ideal confronted the day, No Psyche from upper sphere, But a once loved shape that in darkness lay, Buried a lonesome year!

From maidenhood's wilderness fair and wild A girl to his charm had hied: He had blown out the lamp of the trusting child, And in the darkness she died; Now from the clay she sadly smiled, And the sculptor stood staring-eyed.

He had summoned Psyche—and Psyche crept From a half-forgotten tomb; She brought her sad smile, that still she kept, Her eyes she left in the gloom! High grace had found him, for now he wept, And love was his endless doom!

Night-long he pined, all day did rue; He haunted her form with sighs: As oft as his clay to a lady grew The carvers, with dim surmise, Would whisper, "The same shape come to woo, With its blindly beseeching eyes!"



THE HOMELESS GHOST.

Through still, bare streets, and cold moonshine His homeward way he bent; The clocks gave out the midnight sign As lost in thought he went Along the rampart's ocean-line, Where, high above the tossing brine, Seaward his lattice leant.

He knew not why he left the throng, Why there he could not rest, What something pained him in the song And mocked him in the jest, Or why, the flitting crowd among, A moveless moonbeam lay so long Athwart one lady's breast!

He watched, but saw her speak to none, Saw no one speak to her; Like one decried, she stood alone, From the window did not stir; Her hair by a haunting gust was blown, Her eyes in the shadow strangely shown, She looked a wanderer.

He reached his room, he sought a book His brooding to beguile; But ever he saw her pallid look, Her face too still to smile. An hour he sat in his fireside nook, The time flowed past like a silent brook, Not a word he read the while.

Vague thoughts absorbed his passive brain Of love that bleeding lies, Of hoping ever and hoping in vain, Of a sorrow that never dies— When a sudden spatter of angry rain Smote against every window-pane, And he heard far sea-birds' cries.

He looked from the lattice: the misty moon Hardly a glimmer gave; The wind was like one that hums a tune, The first low gathering stave; The ocean lay in a sullen swoon, With a moveless, monotonous, murmured croon Like the moaning of a slave.

Sudden, with masterful, angry blare It howled from the watery west: The storm was up, he had left his lair! The night would be no jest! He turned: a lady sat in his chair! Through her loose dim robe her arm came bare, And it lay across her breast.

She sat a white queen on a ruined throne, A lily bowed with blight; In her eyes the darkness about was blown By flashes of liquid light; Her skin with very whiteness shone; Back from her forehead loosely thrown Her hair was dusk as night.

Wet, wet it hung, and wept like weeds Down her pearly shoulders bare; The pale drops glistened like diamond beads Caught in a silken snare; As the silver-filmy husk to its seeds Her dank robe clings, and but half recedes Her form so shadowy fair.

Doubting she gazed in his wondering face, Wonder his utterance ties; She searches, like one in forgetful case, For something within his eyes, For something that love holds ever in chase, For something that is, and has no place, But away in the thinking lies.

Speechless he ran, brought a wrap of wool, And a fur that with down might vie; Listless, into the gathering pool She dropped them, and let them lie. He piled the hearth with fagots so full That the flames, as if from the log of Yule, Up the chimney went roaring high.

Then she spoke, and lovely to heart and ear Was her voice, though broke by pain; Afar it sounded, though sweet and clear, As if from out of the rain; As if from out of the night-wind drear It came like the voice of one in fear Lest she should no welcome gain.

"I am too far off to feel the cold, Too cold to feel the fire; It cannot get through the heap of mould That soaks in the drip from the spire: Cerement of wax 'neath cloth of gold, 'Neath fur and wool in fold on fold, Freezes in frost so dire."

Her voice and her eyes and her cheek so white Thrilled him through heart and brain; Wonder and pity and love unite In a passion of bodiless pain; Her beauty possessed him with strange delight: He was out with her in the live wan night, With her in the blowing rain!

Sudden she rose, she kneeled, she flung Her loveliness at his feet: "I am tired of being blown and swung In the rain and the snow and the sleet! But better no rest than stillness among Things whose names would defile my tongue! How I hate the mouldy sheet!

"Ah, though a ghost, I'm a lady still!" The youth recoiled aghast. Her eyes grew wide and pale and chill With a terror that surpassed. He caught her hand: a freezing thrill Stung to his wrist, but with steadfast will He held it warm and fast.

"What can I do to save thee, dear?" At the word she sprang upright; On tiptoe she stood, he bent his ear, She whispered, whispered light. She withdrew; she gazed with an asking fear: Like one that looks on his lady's bier He stood, with a face ghost-white.

"Six times—in vain, oh hapless maid!— I have humbled myself to sue! This is the last: as the sunset decayed, Out with the twilight I grew, And about the city flitted and strayed, A wandering, lonely, forsaken shade: No one saw me but you."

He shivered, he shook, he had turned to clay, Vile fear had gone into his blood; His face was a dismal ashy gray, Through his heart crept slime and mud; The lady stood in a still dismay, She drooped, she shrank, she withered away Like a half-blown frozen bud.

"Speak once more. Am I frightful then? I live, though they call it death; I am only cold! Say dear again." But scarce could he heave a breath; Over a dank and steaming fen He floated astray from the world of men, A lost, half-conscious wraith.

"Ah, 'tis the last time! Save me!" Her cry Entered his heart, and lay. But he loved the sunshine, the golden sky, And the ghosts' moonlight is gray!— As feverous visions flit and fly And without a motion elude the eye, She stood three steps away.

But oh, her eyes!—refusal base Those live-soul-stars had slain! Frozen eyes in an icy face They had grown. Like a ghost of the brain, Beside the lattice, thought-moved in space, She stood with a doleful despairing grace: The fire burned! clanged the rain!

Faded or fled, she had vanished quite! The loud wind sank to a sigh; Pale faces without paled the face of night, Sweeping the window by; Some to the glass pressed a cheek of fright, Some shot a gleam of decaying light From a flickering, uncertain eye.

Whence did it come, from the sky or the deep, That faint, long-cadenced wail? From the closing door of the down-way steep, His own bosom, or out of the gale? From the land where dead dreams, or dead maidens sleep? Out of every night to come will creep That cry his heart to quail!

The clouds had broken, the wind was at rest, The sea would be still ere morn, The moon had gone down behind its breast Save the tip of one blunt horn: Was that the ghost-angel without a nest— Across the moonset far in the west That thin white vapour borne?

He turned from the lattice: the fire-lit room With its ghost-forsaken chair Was cold and drear as a rifled tomb, Shameful and dreamless and bare! Filled it was with his own soul's gloom, With the sense of a traitor's merited doom, With a lovely ghost's despair!

He had driven a lady, and lightly clad, Out in the stormy cold! Was she a ghost?—Divinely sad Are the people of Hades old! A wandering ghost? Oh, self-care bad, Caitiff and craven and cowering, which had Refused her an earthly fold!

Ill had she fared, his lovely guest!— A passion of wild self-blame Tore the heart that failed in the test With a thousand hooks of shame, Bent his proud head on his heaving breast, Shore the plume from his ancient crest, Puffed at his ancient name.

He sickened with scorn of a fallen will, With love and remorse he wept; He sank and kissed her footprints chill And the track by her garment swept; He kneeled by her chair, all ice-cold still, Dropped his head in it, moaned until For weariness he slept.

He slept until the flaming sun Laughed at the by-gone dark: "A frightful dream!—but the night is done," He said, "and I hear the lark!" All day he held out; with the evening gun A booming terror his brain did stun, And Doubt, the jackal, gan bark.

Followed the lion, Conviction, fast, And the truth no dream he knew! Night after night raved the conscience-blast, But stilled as the morning grew. When seven slow moons had come and passed His self-reproach aside he cast, And the truth appeared untrue.

A lady fair—old story vile!— Would make his heart her boast: In the growing glamour of her smile He forgot the lovely ghost: Forgot her for bitterness wrapt in wile, For the lady was false as a crocodile, And her heart was a cave of frost.

Then the cold white face, with its woe divine, Came back in the hour of sighs: Not always with comfort to those that pine The dear true faces arise! He yearned for her, dreamed of her, prayed for a sign; He wept for her pleading voice, and the shine Of her solitary eyes.

"With thy face so still, which I made so sad— Ah me! which I might have wooed— Thou holdest my heart in a love not glad, Sorrowful, shame-subdued! Come to me, lady, in pardon clad; Come to my dreams, white Aidead, For on thee all day I brood!"

She came not. He sought her in churchyards old, In churchyards by the sea; And in many a church, when the midnight tolled And the moon shone eerily, Down to the crypt he crept, grown bold, Sat all night in the dead men's cold, And called to her: never came she.

Praying forgiveness more and more, And her love at any cost, Pining and sighing and longing sore He grew like a creature lost; Thin and spectral his body wore, He faded out at the ghostly door, And was himself a ghost.

But if he found the lady then, So sorrowfully lost For lack of the love 'mong earthly men That was ready to brave love's cost, I know not till I drop my pen, Wander away from earthly ken, And am myself a ghost.



ABU MIDJAN.

"If I sit in the dust For lauding good wine, Ha, ha! it is just: So sits the vine!"

Abu Midjan sang as he sat in chains, For the blood of the grape ran the juice of his veins. The Prophet had said, "O Faithful, drink not!" Abu Midjan drank till his heart was hot; Yea, he sang a song in praise of wine, He called it good names—a joy divine, The giver of might, the opener of eyes, Love's handmaid, the water of Paradise! Therefore Saad his chief spake words of blame, And set him in irons—a fettered flame; But he sings of the wine as he sits in his chains, For the blood of the grape runs the juice of his veins:

"I will not think That the Prophet said Ye shall not drink Of the flowing red!"

"'Tis a drenched brain Whose after-sting Cries out, Refrain: 'Tis an evil thing!

"But I will dare, With a goodly drought, To drink, nor spare Till my thirst be out.

"I do not laugh Like a Christian fool But in silence quaff The liquor cool

"At door of tent 'Neath evening star, With daylight spent, And Uriel afar!

"Then, through the sky, Lo, the emerald hills! My faith swells high, My bosom thrills:

"I see them hearken, The Houris that wait! Their dark eyes darken The diamond gate!

"I hear the float Of their chant divine, And my heart like a boat Sails thither on wine!

"Can an evil thing Make beauty more? Or a sinner bring To the heavenly door?

"The sun-rain fine Would sink and escape, But is drunk by the vine, Is stored in the grape:

"And the prisoned light I free again: It flows in might Through my shining brain

"I love and I know; The truth is mine; I walk in the glow Of the sun-bred wine.

"I will not think That the Prophet said Ye shall not drink Of the flowing red!

"For his promises, lo, Sevenfold they shine When the channels o'erflow With the singing wine!

"But I care not, I!—'tis a small annoy To sit in chains for a heavenly joy!"

Away went the song on the light wind borne; His head sank down, and a ripple of scorn Shook the hair that flowed from his curling lip As he eyed his brown limbs in the iron's grip.

Sudden his forehead he lifted high: A faint sound strayed like a moth-wing by! Like beacons his eyes burst blazing forth: A dust-cloud he spied in the distant north! A noise and a smoke on the plain afar? 'Tis the cloud and the clang of the Moslem war! He leapt aloft like a tiger snared; The wine in his veins through his visage flared; He tore at his fetters in bootless ire, He called the Prophet, he named his sire; From his lips, with wild shout, the Techir burst; He danced in his irons; the Giaours he cursed; And his eyes they flamed like a beacon dun, Or like wine in the crystal twixt eye and sun.

The lady of Saad heard him shout, Heard his fetters ring on the stones about The heart of a warrior she understood, And the rage of the thwarted battle-mood: Her name, with the cry of an angry prayer, He called but once, and the lady was there.

"The Giaour!" he panted, "the Godless brute! And me like a camel tied foot to foot! Let me go, and I swear by Allah's fear At sunset I don again this gear, Or lie in a heaven of starry eyes, Kissed by moon-maidens of Paradise! O lady, grant me the death of the just! Hark to the hurtle! see the dust!"

With ready fingers the noble dame Unlocked her husband's iron blame; Brought his second horse, his Abdon, out, And his second hauberk, light and stout; Harnessed the warrior, and hight him go An angel of vengeance upon the foe.

With clank of steel and thud of hoof Away he galloped; she climbed the roof.

She sees the cloud and the flashes that leap From the scythe-shaped swords inside it that sweep Down with back-stroke the disordered swath: Thither he speeds, a bolt of wrath! Straight as an arrow she sees him go, Abu Midjan, the singer, upon the foe! Like an eagle he vanishes in the cloud, And the thunder of battle bursts more loud, Mingled of crashes and blows and falls, Of the whish that severs the throat that calls, Of neighing and shouting and groaning grim: Abu Midjan, she sees no more of him! Northward the battle drifts afar On the flowing tide of the holy war.

Lonely across the desert sand, From his wrist by its thong hung his clotted brand, Red in the sunset's level flame Back to his bonds Abu Midjan came.

"Lady, I swear your Saad's horse— The Prophet himself might have rode a worse! Like the knots of a serpent the play of his flesh As he tore to the quarry in Allah's mesh! I forgot him, and mowed at the traitor weeds, Which fell before me like rushes and reeds, Or like the tall poppies that sudden drop low Their heads to an urchin's unstrung bow! Fled the Giaour; the faithful flew after to kill; I turned to surrender: beneath me still Was Abdon unjaded, fresh in force, Faithful and fearless—a heavenly horse! Give him water, lady, and barley to eat; Then haste thee and fetter the wine-bibber's feet."

To the terrace he went, and she to the stall; She tended the horse like guest in hall, Then to the warrior unhasting returned. The fire of the fight in his eyes yet burned, But he sat in a silence that might betoken One ashamed that his heart had spoken— Though where was the word to breed remorse? He had lauded only his chief's brave horse! Not a word she spoke, but his fetters locked; He watched with a smile that himself bemocked; She left him seated in caitiff-plight, Like one that had feared and fled the fight.

But what singer ever sat lonely long Ere the hidden fountain burst in song! The battle wine foamed in the warrior's veins, And he sang sword-tempest who sat in chains.

"Oh, the wine Of the vine Is a feeble thing! In the rattle Of battle The true grapes spring!

"When on whir Of Tecbir Allah's wrath flies, And the power Of the Giaour A blasted leaf lies!

"When on force Of the horse The arm flung abroad Is sweeping, And reaping The harvest of God!

"Ha! they drop From the top To the sear heap below! Ha! deeper, Down steeper, The infidels go!

"Azrael Sheer to hell Shoots the foul shoals! There Monker And Nakir Torture their souls!

"But when drop On their crop The scimitars red, And under War's thunder The faithful lie dead,

"Oh, bright Is the light On hero slow breaking! Rapturous faces Bent for embraces Watch for his waking!

"And he hears In his ears The voice of Life's river, Like a song Of the strong, Jubilant ever!

"Oh, the wine Of the vine May lead to the gates, But the rattle Of battle Wakes the angel who waits!

"To the lord Of the sword Open it must! The drinker, The thinker Sits in the dust!

"He dreams Of the gleams Of their garments of white; He misses Their kisses, The maidens of light!

"They long For the strong Who has burst through alarms— Up, by the labour Of stirrup and sabre, Up to their arms!

"Oh, the wine of the grape is a feeble ghost! The wine of the fight is the joy of a host!"

When Saad came home from the far pursuit, An hour he sat, and an hour was mute. Then he opened his mouth: "Ah, wife, the fight Had been lost full sure, but an arm of might Sudden rose up on the crest of the battle, Flashed blue lightnings, thundered steel rattle, Took up the fighting, and drove it on— Enoch sure, or the good Saint John! Wherever he leaped, like a lion he, The battle was thickest, or soon to be! Wherever he sprang with his lion roar, In a minute the battle was there no more! With a headlong fear, the sinners fled, And we swept them down the steep of the dead: Before us, not from us, did they flee, They ceased in the depths of a new Red Sea! But him who saved us we saw no more; He went as he came, by a secret door! And strangest of all—nor think I err If a miracle I for truth aver— I was close to him thrice—the holy Force Wore my silver-ringed hauberk, rode Abdon my horse!"

The lady rose up, withholding her word, And led to the terrace her wondering lord, Where, song-soothed, and weary with battle strain, Abu Midjan sat counting the links of his chain: "The battle was raging, he raging worse; I freed him, harnessed him, gave him thy horse."

"Abu Midjan! the singer of love and of wine! The arm of the battle, it also was thine? Rise up, shake the irons from off thy feet: For the lord of the fight are fetters meet? If thou wilt, then drink till thou be hoar: Allah shall judge thee; I judge no more!"

Abu Midjan arose; he flung aside The clanking fetters, and thus he cried: "If thou give me to God and his decrees, Nor purge my sin with the shame of these, Wrath against me I dare not store: In the name of Allah, I drink no more!"



THE THANKLESS LADY.

It is May, and the moon leans down at night Over a blossomy land; Leans from her window a lady white, With her cheek upon her hand.

"Oh, why in the blue so misty, moon? Why so dull in the sky? Thou look'st like one that is ready to swoon Because her tear-well is dry.

"Enough, enough of longing and wail! Oh, bird, I pray thee, be glad! Sing to me once, dear nightingale, The old song, merry mad.

"Hold, hold with thy blossoming, colourless, cold, Apple-tree white as woe! Blossom yet once with the blossom of old, Let the roses shine through the snow!"

The moon and the blossoms they gloomily gleam, The bird will not be glad: The dead never speak when the mournful dream, They are too weak and sad.

Listened she listless till night grew late, Bound by a weary spell; Then clanked the latch of the garden-gate, And a wondrous thing befell:

Out burst the gladness, up dawned the love. In the song, in the waiting show; Grew silver the moon in the sky above. Blushed rosy the blossom below.

But the merry bird, nor the silvery moon, Nor the blossoms that flushed the night Had one poor thanks for the granted boon: The lady forgot them quite!



LEGEND OF THE CORRIEVRECHAN.

Prince Breacan of Denmark was lord of the strand And lord of the billowy sea; Lord of the sea and lord of the land, He might have let maidens be!

A maiden he met with locks of gold, Straying beside the sea: Maidens listened in days of old, And repented grievously.

Wiser he left her in evil wiles, Went sailing over the sea; Came to the lord of the Western Isles: Give me thy daughter, said he.

The lord of the Isles he laughed, and said: Only a king of the sea May think the Maid of the Isles to wed, And such, men call not thee!

Hold thine own three nights and days In yon whirlpool of the sea, Or turn thy prow and go thy ways And let the isle-maiden be.

Prince Breacan he turned his dragon prow To Denmark over the sea: Wise women, he said, now tell me how In yon whirlpool to anchor me.

Make a cable of hemp and a cable of wool And a cable of maidens' hair, And hie thee back to the roaring pool And anchor in safety there.

The smiths of Greydule, on the eve of Yule, Will forge three anchors rare; The hemp thou shalt pull, thou shalt shear the wool, And the maidens will bring their hair.

Of the hair that is brown thou shalt twist one strand, Of the hair that is raven another; Of the golden hair thou shalt twine a band To bind the one to the other!

The smiths of Greydule, on the eve of Yule, They forged three anchors rare; The hemp he did pull, and he shore the wool, And the maidens brought their hair.

He twisted the brown hair for one strand, The raven hair for another; He twined the golden hair in a band To bind the one to the other.

He took the cables of hemp and wool. He took the cable of hair, He hied him back to the roaring pool, He cast the three anchors there.

The whirlpool roared, and the day went by, And night came down on the sea; But or ever the morning broke the sky The hemp was broken in three.

The night it came down, the whirlpool it ran, The wind it fiercely blew; And or ever the second morning began The wool it parted in two.

The storm it roared all day the third, The whirlpool wallowed about, The night came down like a wild black bird, But the cable of hair held out.

Round and round with a giddy swing Went the sea-king through the dark; Round went the rope in the swivel-ring, Round reeled the straining bark.

Prince Breacan he stood on his dragon prow, A lantern in his hand: Blest be the maidens of Denmark now, By them shall Denmark stand!

He watched the rope through the tempest black A lantern in his hold: Out, out, alack! one strand will crack! It is the strand of gold!

The third morn clear and calm came out: No anchored ship was there! The golden strand in the cable stout Was not all of maidens' hair.



THE DEAD HAND.

The witch lady walked along the strand, Heard a roaring of the sea, On the edge of a pool saw a dead man's hand, Good thing for a witch lady!

Lightly she stepped across the rocks, Came where the dead man lay: Now pretty maid with your merry mocks, Now I shall have my way!

On a finger shone a sapphire blue In the heart of six rubies red: Come back to me, my promise true, Come back, my ring, she said.

She took the dead hand in the live, And at the ring drew she; The dead hand closed its fingers five, And it held the witch lady.

She swore the storm was not her deed, Dark spells she backward spoke; If the dead man heard he took no heed, But held like a cloven oak.

Deathly cold, crept up the tide, Sure of her, made no haste; Crept up to her knees, crept up each side, Crept up to her wicked waist.

Over the blue sea sailed the bride In her love's own sailing ship, And the witch she saw them across the tide As it rose to her lying lip.

Oh, the heart of the dead and the hand of the dead Are strong hasps they to hold! Fled the true dove with the kite's new love, And left the false kite with the old.



MINOR DITTIES.



IN THE NIGHT.

As to her child a mother calls, "Come to me, child; come near!" Calling, in silent intervals, The Master's voice I hear.

But does he call me verily? To have me does he care? Why should he seek my poverty, My selfishness so bare?

The dear voice makes his gladness brim, But not a child can know Why that large woman cares for him, Why she should love him so!

Lord, to thy call of me I bow, Obey like Abraham: Thou lov'st me because thou art thou, And I am what I am!

Doubt whispers, Thou art such a blot He cannot love poor thee: If what I am he loveth not, He loves what I shall be.

Nay, that which can be drawn and wooed, And turned away from ill, Is what his father made for good: He loves me, I say still!



THE GIVER.

To give a thing and take again Is counted meanness among men; To take away what once is given Cannot then be the way of heaven!

But human hearts are crumbly stuff, And never, never love enough, Therefore God takes and, with a smile, Puts our best things away a while.

Thereon some weep, some rave, some scorn, Some wish they never had been born; Some humble grow at last and still, And then God gives them what they will.



FALSE PROPHETS.

Would-be prophets tell us We shall not re-know Them that walked our fellows In the ways below!

Smoking, smouldering Tophets Steaming hopeless plaints! Dreary, mole-eyed prophets! Mean, skin-pledging saints!

Knowing not the Father What their prophecies! Grapes of such none gather, Only thorns and lies.

Loving thus the brother, How the Father tell? Go without each other To your heavenly hell!



LIFE-WEARY.

O Thou that walkest with nigh hopeless feet Past the one harbour, built for thee and thine. Doth no stray odour from its table greet, No truant beam from fire or candle shine?

At his wide door the host doth stand and call; At every lattice gracious forms invite; Thou seest but a dull-gray, solid wall In forest sullen with the things of night!

Thou cravest rest, and Rest for thee doth crave, The white sheet folded down, white robe apart.— Shame, Faithless! No, I do not mean the grave! I mean Love's very house and hearth and heart.



APPROACHES.

When thou turn'st away from ill, Christ is this side of thy hill.

When thou turnest toward good, Christ is walking in thy wood.

When thy heart says, "Father, pardon!" Then the Lord is in thy garden.

When stern Duty wakes to watch, Then his hand is on the latch.

But when Hope thy song doth rouse, Then the Lord is in the house.

When to love is all thy wit, Christ doth at thy table sit.

When God's will is thy heart's pole, Then is Christ thy very soul.



TRAVELLERS' SONG.

Bands of dark and bands of light Lie athwart the homeward way; Now we cross a belt of Night, Now a strip of shining Day!

Now it is a month of June, Now December's shivering hour; Now rides high loved memories' Moon, Now the Dark is dense with power!

Summers, winters, days, and nights, Moons, and clouds, they come and go; Joys and sorrows, pains, delights, Hope and fear, and yes and no.

All is well: come, girls and boys, Not a weary mile is vain! Hark—dim laughter's radiant noise! See the windows through the rain!



LOVE IS STRENGTH.

Love alone is great in might, Makes the heavy burden light, Smooths rough ways to weary feet, Makes the bitter morsel sweet: Love alone is strength!

Might that is not born of Love Is not Might born from above, Has its birthplace down below Where they neither reap nor sow: Love alone is strength!

Love is stronger than all force, Is its own eternal source; Might is always in decay, Love grows fresher every day: Love alone is strength!

Little ones, no ill can chance; Fear ye not, but sing and dance; Though the high-heaved heaven should fall God is plenty for us all: God is Love and Strength!



COMING.

When the snow is on the earth Birds and waters cease their mirth; When the sunlight is prevailing Even the night-winds drop their wailing.

On the earth when deep snows lie Still the sun is in the sky, And when most we miss his fire He is ever drawing nigher.

In the darkest winter day Thou, God, art not far away; When the nights grow colder, drearer, Father, thou art coming nearer!

For thee coming I would watch With my hand upon the latch— Of the door, I mean, that faces Out upon the eternal spaces!



SONG OF THE WAITING DEAD.

With us there is no gray fearing, With us no aching for lack! For the morn it is always nearing, And the night is at our back. At times a song will fall dumb, A thought-bell burst in a sigh, But no one says, "He will not come!" She says, "He is almost nigh!"

The thing you call a sorrow Is our delight on its way: We know that the coming morrow Comes on the wheels of to-day! Our Past is a child asleep; Delay is ripening the kiss; The rising tear we will not weep Until it flow for bliss.



OBEDIENCE.

Trust him in the common light; Trust him in the awesome night;

Trust him when the earth doth quake: Trust him when thy heart doth ache;

Trust him when thy brain doth reel And thy friend turns on his heel;

Trust him when the way is rough, Cry not yet, It is enough!

But obey with true endeavour, Else the salt hath lost his savour.



A SONG IN THE NIGHT.

I would I were an angel strong, An angel of the sun, hasting along!

I would I were just come awake, A child outbursting from night's dusky brake!

Or lark whose inward, upward fate Mocks every wall that masks the heavenly gate!

Or hopeful cock whose clarion clear Shrills ten times ere a film of dawn appear!

Or but a glowworm: even then My light would come straight from the Light of Men!

I am a dead seed, dark and slow: Father of larks and children, make me grow.



DE PROFUNDIS.

When I am dead unto myself, and let, O Father, thee live on in me, Contented to do nought but pay my debt, And leave the house to thee,

Then shall I be thy ransomed—from the cark Of living, from the strain for breath, From tossing in my coffin strait and dark, At hourly strife with death!

Have mercy! in my coffin! and awake! A buried temple of the Lord! Grow, Temple, grow! Heart, from thy cerements break! Stream out, O living Sword!

When I am with thee as thou art with me, Life will be self-forgetting power; Love, ever conscious, buoyant, clear, and free, Will flame in darkest hour.

Where now I sit alone, unmoving, calm, With windows open to thy wind, Shall I not know thee in the radiant psalm Soaring from heart and mind?

The body of this death will melt away, And I shall know as I am known; Know thee my father, every hour and day, As thou know'st me thine own!



BLIND SORROW.

"My life is drear; walking I labour sore; The heart in me is heavy as a stone; And of my sorrows this the icy core: Life is so wide, and I am all alone!"

Thou did'st walk so, with heaven-born eyes down bent Upon the earth's gold-rosy, radiant clay, That thou had'st seen no star in all God's tent Had not thy tears made pools first on the way.

Ah, little knowest thou the tender care In a love-plenteous cloak around thee thrown! Full many a dim-seen, saving mountain-stair Toiling thou climb'st—but not one step alone!

Lift but thy languid head and see thy guide; Let thy steps go in his, nor choose thine own; Then soon wilt thou, thine eyes with wonder wide, Cry, Now I know I never was alone!



MOTES IN THE SUN.



ANGELS.

Came of old to houses lonely Men with wings, but did not show them: Angels come to our house, only, For their wings, they do not know them!



THE FATHER'S WORSHIPPERS.

'Tis we, not in thine arms, who weep and pray; The children in thy bosom laugh and play.



A BIRTHDAY-WISH.

Who know thee, love: thy life be such That, ere the year be o'er, Each one who loves thee now so much, Even God, may love thee more!



TO ANY ONE.

Go not forth to call Dame Sorrow From the dim fields of Tomorrow; Let her roam there all unheeded, She will come when she is needed; Then, when she draws near thy door, She will find God there before.



WAITING.

Lie, little cow, and chew thy cud, The farmer soon will shift thy tether; Chirp, linnet, on the frozen mud, Sun and song will come together; Wait, soul, for God, and thou shalt bud, He waits thy waiting with his weather.



LOST BUT SAFE.

Lost the little one roams about, Pathway or shelter none can find; Blinking stars are coming out; No one is moving but the wind; It is no use to cry or shout, All the world is still as a mouse; One thing only eases her mind: "Father knows I'm not in the house!"



MUCH AND MORE.

When thy heart, love-filled, grows graver, And eternal bliss looks nearer, Ask thy heart, nor show it favour, Is the gift or giver dearer?

Love, love on; love higher, deeper; Let love's ocean close above her; Only, love thou more love's keeper, More, the love-creating lover.



HOPE AND PATIENCE.

An unborn bird lies crumpled and curled, A-dreaming of the world.

Round it, for castle-wall, a shell Is guarding it well.

Hope is the bird with its dim sensations; The shell that keeps it alive is Patience.



A BETTER THING.

I took it for a bird of prey that soared High over ocean, battled mount, and plain; 'Twas but a bird-moth, which with limp horns gored The invisibly obstructing window-pane!

Better than eagle, with far-towering nerve But downward bent, greedy, marauding eye, Guest of the flowers, thou art: unhurt they serve Thee, little angel of a lower sky!



A PRISONER.

The hinges are so rusty The door is fixed and fast; The windows are so dusty The sun looks in aghast: Knock out the glass, I pray, Or dash the door away, Or break the house down bodily, And let my soul go free!



TO MY LORD AND MASTER.

Imagination cannot rise above thee; Near and afar I see thee, and I love thee; My misery away from me I thrust it, For thy perfection I behold, and trust it.



TO ONE UNSATISFIED.

When, with all the loved around thee, Still thy heart says, "I am lonely," It is well; the truth hath found thee: Rest is with the Father only.



TO MY GOD.

Oh how oft I wake and find I have been forgetting thee! I am never from thy mind: Thou it is that wakest me.



TRIOLET.

Oh that men would praise the Lord For his goodness unto men! Forth he sends his saving word, —Oh that men would praise the Lord!— And from shades of death abhorred Lifts them up to light again: Oh that men would praise the Lord For his goodness unto men!



THE WORD OF GOD.

Where the bud has never blown Who for scent is debtor? Where the spirit rests unknown Fatal is the letter.

In thee, Jesus, Godhead-stored, All things we inherit, For thou art the very Word And the very Spirit!



EINE KLEINE PREDIGT.

Graut Euch nicht, Ihr lieben Leute, Vor dem ungeheuren Morgen; Wenn es kommt, es ist das Heute, Und der liebe Gott zu sorgen.



TO THE LIFE ETERNAL.

Thou art my thought, my heart, my being's fortune, The search for thee my growth's first conscious date; For nought, for everything, I thee importune; Thou art my all, my origin and fate!



HOPE DEFERRED.

"Where is thy crown, O tree of Love? Flowers only bears thy root! Will never rain drop from above Divine enough for fruit?"

"I dwell in hope that gives good cheer, Twilight my darkest hour; For seest thou not that every year I break in better flower?"



FORGIVENESS.

God gives his child upon his slate a sum— To find eternity in hours and years; With both sides covered, back the child doth come, His dim eyes swollen with shed and unshed tears; God smiles, wipes clean the upper side and nether, And says, "Now, dear, we'll do the sum together!"



DEJECTION.

O Father, I am in the dark, My soul is heavy-bowed: I send my prayer up like a lark, Up through my vapoury shroud, To find thee, And remind thee I am thy child, and thou my father, Though round me death itself should gather.

Lay thy loved hand upon my head, Let thy heart beat in mine; One thought from thee, when all seems dead, Will make the darkness shine About me And throughout me! And should again the dull night gather, I'll cry again, Thou art my father.



APPEAL.

If in my arms I bore my child, Would he cry out for fear Because the night was dark and wild And no one else was near?

Shall I then treat thee, Father, as My fatherhood would grieve? I will be hopeful, though, alas, I cannot quite believe!

I had no power, no wish to be: Thou madest me half blind! The darkness comes! I cling to thee! Be thou my perfect mind.



POEMS FOR CHILDREN



LESSONS FOR A CHILD.

I.

There breathes not a breath of the summer air But the spirit of love is moving there; Not a trembling leaf on the shadowy tree, Flutters with hundreds in harmony, But that spirit can part its tone from the rest, And read the life in its beetle's breast. When the sunshiny butterflies come and go, Like flowers paying visits to and fro, Not a single wave of their fanning wings Is unfelt by the spirit that feeleth all things. The long-mantled moths that sleep at noon And rove in the light of the gentler moon; And the myriad gnats that dance like a wall, Or a moving column that will not fall; And the dragon-flies that go burning by, Shot like a glance from a seeking eye— There is one being that loves them all: Not a fly in a spider's web can fall But he cares for the spider, and cares for the fly; He cares for you, whether you laugh or cry, Cares whether your mother smile or sigh. How he cares for so many, I do not know, But it would be too strange if he did not so— Dreadful and dreary for even a fly: So I cannot wait for the how and why, But believe that all things are gathered and nursed In the love of him whose love went first And made this world—like a huge great nest For a hen to sit on with feathery breast.

II.

The bird on the leafy tree, The bird in the cloudy sky, The hart in the forest free, The stag on the mountain high, The fish inside the sea, The albatross asleep On the outside of the deep, The bee through the summer sunny Hunting for wells of honey— What is the thought in the breast Of the little bird in its nest? What is the thought in the songs The lark in the sky prolongs? What mean the dolphin's rays, Winding his watery ways? What is the thought of the stag, Stately on yonder crag? What does the albatross think, Dreaming upon the brink Of the mountain billow, and then Dreaming down in its glen? What is the thought of the bee Fleeting so silently, Or flitting—with busy hum, But a careless go-and-come— From flower-chalice to chalice, Like a prince from palace to palace? What makes them alive, so very— Some of them, surely, merry. And others so stately calm They might be singing a psalm?

I cannot tell what they think—- Only know they eat and drink, And on all that lies about With a quiet heart look out, Each after its kind, stately or coy, Solemn like man, gamesome like boy, Glad with its own mysterious joy.

And God, who knows their thoughts and ways Though his the creatures do not know, From his full heart fills each of theirs: Into them all his breath doth go; Good and better with them he shares; Content with their bliss while they have no prayers, He takes their joy for praise.

If thou wouldst be like him, little one, go And be kind with a kindness undefiled; Who gives for the pleasure of thanks, my child, God's gladness cannot know.

III.

Root met root in the spongy ground, Searching each for food: Each turned aside, and away it wound. And each got something good.

Sound met sound in the wavy air— That made a little to-do! They jostled not long, but were quick and fair; Each found its path and flew.

Drop dashed on drop, as the rain-shower fell; They joined and sank below: In gathered thousands they rose a well, With a singing overflow.

Wind met wind in a garden green, They began to push and fret: A tearing whirlwind arose between: There love lies bleeding yet.



WHAT MAKES SUMMER?

Winter froze both brook and well; Fast and fast the snowflakes fell; Children gathered round the hearth Made a summer of their mirth; When a boy, so lately come That his life was yet one sum Of delights—of aimless rambles. Romps and dreams and games and gambols, Thought aloud: "I wish I knew What makes summer—that I do!" Father heard, and it did show him How to write a little poem.

What makes summer, little one, Do you ask? It is the sun. Want of heat is all the harm, Summer is but winter warm. 'Tis the sun—yes, that one there, Dim and gray, low in the air! Now he looks at us askance, But will lift his countenance Higher up, and look down straighter. Rise much earlier, set much later, Till we sing out, "Hail, Well-comer, Thou hast brought our own old Summer!"

When the sun thus rises early And keeps shining all day rarely, Up he draws the larks to meet him, Earth's bird-angels, wild to greet him; Up he draws the clouds, and pours Down again their shining showers; Out he draws the grass and clover, Daisies, buttercups all over; Out he wiles all flowers to stare At their father in the air— He all light, they how much duller, Yet son-suns of every colour! Then he draws their odours out, Sends them on the winds about. Next he draws out flying things— Out of eggs, fast-flapping wings; Out of lumps like frozen snails, Butterflies with splendid sails; Draws the blossoms from the trees, From their hives the buzzy bees, Golden things from muddy cracks— Beetles with their burnished backs; Laughter draws he from the river Gleaming back to the gleam-giver; Light he sends to every nook That no creature be forsook; Draws from gloom and pain and sadness, Hope and blessing, peace and gladness, Making man's heart sing and shine With his brilliancy divine: Summer, thus it is he makes it, And the little child he takes it.

Day's work done, adown the west Lingering he goes to rest; Like a child, who, blissful yet, Is unwilling to forget, And, though sleepy, heels and head, Thinks he cannot go to bed. Even when down behind the hill Back his bright look shineth still, Whose keen glory with the night Makes the lovely gray twilight— Drawing out the downy owl, With his musical bird-howl; Drawing out the leathery bats— Mice they are, turned airy cats— Noiseless, sly, and slippery things Swimming through the air on wings; Drawing out the feathery moth, Lazy, drowsy, very loath; Drawing children to the door For one goodnight-frolic more; Drawing from the glow-worms' tails Glimmers green in grassy dales; Making ocean's phosphor-flashes Glow as if they were sun-ashes.

Then the moon comes up the hill, Wide awake, but dreaming still, Soft and slow, as if in fear Lest her path should not be clear. Like a timid lady she Looks around her daintily, Begs the clouds to come about her, Tells the stars to shine without her, Then unveils, and, bolder grown, Climbs the steps of her blue throne: Stately in a calm delight, Mistress of a whole fair night, Lonely but for stars a few, There she sits in silence blue, And the world before her lies Faint, a round shade in the skies!

But what fun is all about When the humans are shut out! Shadowy to the moon, the earth Is a very world of mirth! Night is then a dream opaque Full of creatures wide awake! Noiseless then, on feet or wings, Out they come, all moon-eyed things! In and out they pop and play, Have it all their own wild way, Fly and frolic, scamper, glow; Treat the moon, for all her show, State, and opal diadem, Like a nursemaid watching them. And the nightingale doth snare All the merry tumult rare, All the music and the magic, All the comic and the tragic, All the wisdom and the riot Of the midnight moonlight diet, In a diamond hoop of song, Which he trundles all night long.

What doth make the sun, you ask, Able for such mighty task? He is not a lamp hung high Sliding up and down the sky, He is carried in a hand: That's what makes him strong and grand! From that hand comes all his power; If it set him down one hour, Yea, one moment set him by, In that moment he would die, And the winter, ice, and snow Come on us, and never go.

Need I tell you whose the hand Bears him high o'er sea and land?



MOTHER NATURE.

Beautiful mother is busy all day, So busy she neither can sing nor say; But lovely thoughts, in a ceaseless flow, Through her eyes, and her ears, and her bosom go— Motion, sight, and sound, and scent, Weaving a royal, rich content.

When night is come, and her children sleep, Beautiful mother her watch doth keep; With glowing stars in her dusky hair Down she sits to her music rare; And her instrument that never fails, Is the hearts and the throats of her nightingales.



THE MISTLETOE.

Kiss me: there now, little Neddy, Do you see her staring steady? There again you had a chance of her! Didn't you catch the pretty glance of her? See her nest! On any planet Never was a sweeter than it! Never nest was such as this is: Tis the nest of all the kisses, With the mother kiss-bird sitting All through Christmas, never flitting, Kisses, kisses, kisses hatching, Sweetest birdies, for the catching! Oh, the precious little brood Always in a loving mood!— There's one under Mamy's hood!

There, that's one I caught this minute, Musical as any linnet! Where it is, your big eyes question, With of doubt a wee suggestion? There it is—upon mouth merry! There it is—upon cheek cherry! There's another on chin-chinnie! Now it's off, and lights on Minnie! There's another on nose-nosey! There's another on lip-rosy! And the kissy-bird is hatching Hundreds more for only catching.

Why the mistletoe she chooses, And the Christmas-tree refuses? There's a puzzle for your mother? I'll present you with another! Tell me why, you question-asker, Cruel, heartless mother-tasker— Why, of all the trees before her, Gathered round, or spreading o'er her, Jenny Wren should choose the apple For her nursery and chapel! Or Jack Daw build in the steeple High above the praying people! Tell me why the limping plover O'er moist meadow likes to hover; Why the partridge with such trouble Builds her nest where soon the stubble Will betray her hop-thumb-cheepers To the eyes of all the reapers!— Tell me, Charley; tell me, Janey; Answer all, or answer any, And I'll tell you, with much pleasure, Why this little bird of treasure Nestles only in the mistletoe, Never, never goes the thistle to.

Not an answer? Tell without it? Yes—all that I know about it:— Mistletoe, then, cannot flourish, Cannot find the food to nourish But on other plant when planted— And for kissing two are wanted. That is why the kissy-birdie Looks about for oak-tree sturdy And the plant that grows upon it Like a wax-flower on a bonnet.

But, my blessed little mannie, All the birdies are not cannie That the kissy-birdie hatches! Some are worthless little patches, Which indeed if they don't smutch you, 'Tis they're dead before they touch you! While for kisses vain and greedy, Kisses flattering, kisses needy, They are birds that never waddled Out of eggs that only addled! Some there are leave spots behind them, On your cheek for years you'd find them: Little ones, I do beseech you, Never let such birdies reach you.

It depends what net you venture What the sort of bird will enter! I will tell you in a minute What net takes kiss—lark or linnet— Any bird indeed worth hatching And just therefore worth the catching: The one net that never misses Catching at least some true kisses, Is the heart that, loving truly, Always loves the old love newly; But to spread out would undo it— Let the birdies fly into it.



PROFESSOR NOCTUTUS.

Nobody knows the world but me. The rest go to bed; I sit up and see. I'm a better observer than any of you all, For I never look out till the twilight fall, And never then without green glasses, And that is how my wisdom passes.

I never think, for that is not fit: I observe. I have seen the white moon sit On her nest, the sea, like a fluffy owl, Hatching the boats and the long-legged fowl! When the oysters gape—you may make a note— She drops a pearl into every throat.

I can see the wind: can you do that? I see the dreams he has in his hat, I see him shaking them out as he goes, I see them rush in at man's snoring nose. Ten thousand things you could not think, I can write down plain with pen and ink!

You know that I know; therefore pull off your hat, Whether round and tall, or square and flat: You cannot do better than trust in me; You may shut your eyes in fact—I see! Lifelong I will lead you, and then, like the owl, I will bury you nicely with my spade and showl.



BIRD-SONGS.

I will sing a song, Said the owl. You sing a song, sing-song Ugly fowl! What will you sing about, Night in and day out?

All about the night, When the gray With her cloak smothers bright, Hard, sharp day. Oh, the moon! the cool dew! And the shadows!—tu-whoo!

I will sing a song, Said the nightingale. Sing a song, long, long, Little Neverfail! What will you sing about, Day in or day out?

All about the light Gone away, Down, away, and out of sight: Wake up, day! For the master is not dead, Only gone to bed.

I will sing a song, Said the lark. Sing, sing, Throat-strong, Little Kill-the-dark! What will you sing about, Day in and night out?

I can only call! I can't think! Let me up, that's all! I see a chink! I've been thirsting all night For the glorious light!



RIDDLES.

I.

I have only one foot, but thousands of toes; My one foot stands well, but never goes; I've a good many arms, if you count them all, But hundreds of fingers, large and small; From the ends of my fingers my beauty grows; I breathe with my hair, and I drink with my toes; I grow bigger and bigger about the waist Although I am always very tight laced; None e'er saw me eat—I've no mouth to bite! Yet I eat all day, and digest all night. In the summer, with song I shake and quiver, But in winter I fast and groan and shiver.

II.

There is a plough that hath no share, Only a coulter that parteth fair; But the ridges they rise To a terrible size Or ever the coulter comes near to tear: The horses and ridges fierce battle make; The horses are safe, but the plough may break.

Seed cast in its furrows, or green or sear, Will lift to the sun neither blade nor ear: Down it drops plumb Where no spring-times come, Nor needeth it any harrowing gear; Wheat nor poppy nor blade has been found Able to grow on the naked ground.

FOR MY GRANDCHILD.

III.

Who is it that sleeps like a top all night, And wakes in the morning so fresh and bright That he breaks his bed as he gets up, And leaves it smashed like a china cup?

IV.

I've a very long nose, but what of that? It is not too long to lie on a mat!

I have very big jaws, but never get fat: I don't go to church, and I'm not a church rat!

I've a mouth in my middle my food goes in at, Just like a skate's—that's a fish that's a flat.

In summer I'm seldom able to breathe, But when winter his blades in ice doth sheathe

I swell my one lung, I look big and I puff, And I sometimes hiss.—There, that's enough!



BABY.

Where did you come from, baby dear? Out of the everywhere into here.

Where did you get those eyes so blue? Out of the sky as I came through.

What makes the light in them sparkle and spin? Some of the starry twinkles left in.

Where did you get that little tear? I found it waiting when I got here.

What makes your forehead so smooth and high? A soft hand stroked it as I went by.

What makes your cheek like a warm white rose? I saw something better than any one knows.

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss? Three angels gave me at once a kiss.

Where did you get this pearly ear? God spoke, and it came out to hear.

Where did you get those arms and hands? Love made itself into bonds and bands.

Feet, whence did you come, you darling things? From the same box as the cherubs' wings.

How did they all just come to be you? God thought about me, and so I grew.

But how did you come to us, you dear? God thought about you, and so I am here.



UP AND-DOWN.

The sun is gone down And the moon's in the sky But the sun will come up And the moon be laid by.

The flower is asleep. But it is not dead, When the morning shines It will lift its head.

When winter comes It will die! No, no, It will only hide From the frost and snow.

Sure is the summer, Sure is the sun; The night and the winter Away they run.



UP IN THE TREE.

What would you see, if I took you up My little aerie-stair? You would see the sky like a clear blue cup Turned upside down in the air.

What would you do, up my aerie-stair In my little nest on the tree? With cry upon cry you would ripple the air To get at what you would see.

And what would you reach in the top of the tree To still your grasping grief? Not a star would you clutch of all you would see, You would gather just one green leaf.

But when you had lost your greedy grief, Content to see from afar, Your hand it would hold a withering leaf, But your heart a shining star.



A BABY-SERMON.

The lightning and thunder They go and they come: But the stars and the stillness Are always at home.



LITTLE BO-PEEP.

Little Bo-Peep, she has lost her sheep, And will not know where to find them; They are over the height and out of sight, Trailing their tails behind them!

Little Bo-Peep woke out of her sleep, Jump'd up and set out to find them: "The silly things! they've got no wings, And they've left their trails behind them!

"They've taken their tails, but they've left their trails, And so I shall follow and find them!" For wherever a tail had dragged a trail The grass lay bent behind them.

She washed in the brook, and caught up her crook. And after her sheep did run Along the trail that went up the dale Across the grass in the sun.

She ran with a will, and she came to a hill That went up steep like a spire; On its very top the sun seemed to stop, And burned like a flame of fire.

But now she went slow, for the hill did go Up steeper as she went higher; When she reached its crown, the sun was down, Leaving a trail of fire.

And her sheep were gone, and hope she had none. For now was no trail behind them. Yes, there they were! long-tailed and fair! But to see was not to find them!

Golden in hue, and rosy and blue, And white as blossom of pears, Her sheep they did run in the trail of the sun, As she had been running in theirs!

After the sun like clouds they did run, But she knew they were her sheep: She sat down to cry and look up at the sky, But she cried herself to sleep.

And as she slept the dew down wept, And the wind did blow from the sky; And doings strange brought a lovely change: She woke with a different cry!

Nibble, nibble, crop, without a stop! A hundred little lambs Did pluck and eat the grass so sweet That grew in the trail of their dams!

She gave one look, she caught up her crook, Wiped away the sleep that did blind her; And nibble-nibble-crop, without a stop The lambs came nibbling behind her.

Home, home she came, both tired and lame, With three times as large a stock; In a month or more, they'll be sheep as before, A lovely, long-wooled flock!

But what will she say, if, one fine day, When they've got their bushiest tails, Their grown-up game should be just the same, And again she must follow mere trails?

Never weep, Bo-Peep, though you lose your sheep, Tears will turn rainbow-laughter! In the trail of the sun if the mothers did run, The lambs are sure to run after;

But a day is coming when little feet drumming Will wake you up to find them— All the old sheep—how your heart will leap!— With their big little lambs behind them!



LITTLE BOY BLUE.

Little Boy Blue lost his way in a wood— Sing apples and cherries, roses and honey: He said, "I would not go back if I could, It's all so jolly and funny!"

He sang, "This wood is all my own— Apples and cherries, roses and honey! Here I will sit, a king on my throne, All so jolly and funny!"

A little snake crept out of a tree— Apples and cherries, roses and honey: "Lie down at my feet, little snake," said he— All so jolly and funny!

A little bird sang in the tree overhead— "Apples and cherries, roses and honey:" "Come and sing your song on my finger," he said, All so jolly and funny.

Up coiled the snake; the bird came down, And sang him the song of Birdie Brown.

But little Boy Blue found it tiresome to sit Though it was on a throne: he would walk a bit!

He took up his horn, and he blew a blast: "Snake, you go first, and, birdie, come last."

Waves of green snake o'er the yellow leaves went; The snake led the way, and he knew what he meant:

But by Boy Blue's head, with flutter and dart, Flew Birdie Brown, her song in her heart.

Boy Blue came where apples grew fair and sweet: "Tree, drop me an apple down at my feet."

He came where cherries hung plump and red: "Come to my mouth, sweet kisses," he said.

And the boughs bow down, and the apples they dapple The grass, too many for him to grapple;

And the cheeriest cherries, with never a miss, Fall to his mouth, each a full-grown kiss.

He met a little brook singing a song: "Little brook," he said, "you are going wrong,

"You must follow me, follow me, follow, I say, Do as I tell you, and come this way."

And the song-singing, sing-songing forest brook Leapt from its bed and after him took;

And the dead leaves rustled, yellow and wan, As over their beds the water ran.

He called every bird that sat on a bough; He called every creature with poop and prow—

I mean, with two ends, that is, nose and tail: With legs or without, they followed full sail;

Squirrels that carried their tails like a sack, Each his own on his little brown humpy back;

Snails that drew their own caravans, Poking out their own eyes on the point of a lance,

And houseless slugs, white, black, and red— Snails too lazy to build a shed;

And butterflies, flutterbys, weasels, and larks, And owls, and shrew-mice, and harkydarks,

Cockchafers, henchafers, cockioli-birds, Cockroaches, henroaches, cuckoos in herds;

The dappled fawns fawning, the fallow-deer following; The swallows and flies, flying and swallowing—

All went flitting, and sailing, and flowing After the merry boy running and blowing.

The spider forgot, and followed him spinning, And lost all his thread from end to beginning;

The gay wasp forgot his rings and his waist— He never had made such undignified haste!

The dragon-flies melted to mist with their hurrying; The mole forsook his harrowing and burrowing;

The bees went buzzing, not busy but beesy, And the midges in columns, upright and easy.

But Little Boy Blue was not content, Calling for followers still as he went,

Blowing his horn, and beating his drum, And crying aloud, "Come all of you, come!"

He said to the shadows, "Come after me;" And the shadows began to flicker and flee,

And away through the wood went flattering and fluttering, Shaking and quivering, quavering and muttering.

He said to the wind, "Come, follow; come, follow With whistle and pipe, with rustle and hollo;"

And the wind wound round at his desire, As if Boy had been the gold cock on the spire;

And the cock itself flew down from the church And left the farmers all in the lurch.

Everything, everything, all and sum, They run and they fly, they creep and they come;

The very trees they tugged at their roots, Only their feet were too fast in their boots—