OBERON.

Oberon, Elferon, Pleasant Prince of Faery! He should scarce be sung of me,— Me, his humblest follower Wheresoe’er a branch may stir Signing, “This way hath he gone, Oberon, Elferon, Pleasant Prince of Faery!” He should scarce be sung of me; Yet, because, of his high grace, I had glimpse once of his face,— Moment sweet to think upon!— I his celebrant will be. Blood of Pan is in his veins, And oft he goes in great Pan’s guise; But not of Pan is all his mood, Godlike-careless, dreamy-wise: Conscious he of mortal pains! He hath shadows in his eyes Such as under hemlocks brood; In his voice he hath a tone Like unto the dark pine’s moan; Northland bore him, not the South! Yet rare laughters hath his mouth, Birch-leaf laughters, rippling light. Clear the sense of every sign Is unto his perfect sight, Sight as May-day morning young: Sounds unto his hearing fine Are as words of some known tongue. Cuckoo-flower by Avon’s brim, Muskrose rich, or eglantine, Saith nor more nor less to him Than arbutus softly saith With its blush and with its breath. Nightingale in Attic wood Is no deeper understood Than our bent-browed mocker gray, With his bright eye cool and clear, Sad and tender, wild and gay, Dashing skeptic cavalier! He hath not the virtue missed In our violet’s amethyst, All unscented as it grows: Healings hid in jewel-tints Of wing and petal well he knows! Gems the shining black-bird shows On his purple as he goes, And the blue jay’s sapphire-glints, And the burning, cordial gold Of the oriole blithe and bold. He can read the cipher-prints On the vans of butterflies, On the eggs of tiniest wren; He can read the scarred rock’s hints And the legends of the skies; And he can read the hearts of men. Ah, since thou hast smiled on me, Though thy face no more I see, Never win thy benison, I must follow, follow thee,— Oberon, Elferon, Pleasant Prince of Poesy!

I. Now filled was all the sum Of serving years, and past, forever past, All duties, all delights, of young esquires: And to the altar and the hour at last,— The hour, the altar, of his dear desires,— Clear-shriven and whitely clad the youth was come. II. Full many a squire was in that household bred To arms and honor and sweet courtesy, Who wore that sojourn’s fragrant memory As amulet in after-battles dread; And meeting in kings’ houses joyously, Or, wounded, in the sedge beside a lake, Such men were bounden brothers, for the sake Of the blade that knighted and the board that fed. III. To eastward builded was the oratory: There all the warm spring night,—while in the wood The buds were swelling in the brooding dark, And dreaming of a lordlier dawn the lark,— Paced to and fro the youth, and dreamed on glory, And watched his arms. Great knights in mailéd hood On steeds of stone sat ranged along the aisle, And frowned upon the aspirant: “Who is he Would claim the name and join the company Of slayers of Soldans swart and Dragons grim, Not ignorant of wanded wizards’ guile, And deserts parched, and waters wide to swim?” He halted at the challenge of the dead. Anon, in twilight, fancy feigned a smile To curve the carven lips, as though they said, “Oh welcome, brother, of whom the world hath need! Ere the recorded deed We trembled, hoped, and doubted, even as thou.” And therewithal he lifted up his brow, Uplift from hesitance and humble fear, And saw how with the splendor of the sun The glimmering oriel blossomed rosy-clear; And lo, the Vigil of the Arms was done! IV. Now, mass being said, before the priest he brought That glittering prophecy, his untried sword. In some mysterious forge the blade was wrought, By shadowy arms of force that baffle thought Wrought curiously in the dim under-world; And all along the sheath processions poured, Thronged shapes of earth’s weird morn Ere yet the hammer of Thor was downward hurled: Not less it had for hilt the Cross of Christ the Lord, And must thereby in battle aye be borne. V. Cool-sprinkled with the consecrated wave, That blade was blessed, that it should strike to save; And next, pure hands of youth in hands of age Were held upon the page Of the illuminate missal, full of prayers,— Rich fields, wherethrough the river of souls has rushed Long, long, to have its passion held and hushed In the breast of that calm sea whereto it fares: And steadfastly the aspirant vow did plight To bear the sword, or break it, for the Right; And living well his life, yet hold it light,— Yea, for that sovereign sake a worthless thing. VI. Thereon a troop of maids began to bring, With flutter as of many-colored doves, The hauberk that right martially did ring, And weight of linkéd gloves, And helmet plumed, and spurs ablaze with gold. Each gave in gracious wise her guiding word, As bade or fresh caprice, or usance old: As, Ride thou swift by golden Honor spurred Or, Be thou faithful, fortunate, and bold. But scarce for his own heart the aspirant heard. VII. And armed, all save the head, He kneeled before his master gray and good. Like some tall, noble, ancient ship he stood, That once swept o’er the tide With banners, and freight of heroes helmeted For worthy war, and music breathing pride. Now, the walled cities won, And storms withstood, and all her story spun, She towers in sand beside some sunny bay, Whence in the silvery morn new barks go sailing gay. So stately stood the Knight: And with a mighty arm, and with a blade Reconsecrate at fiery fonts of fight, He on the bowed neck gave the accolade. Yet kneeled the youth bewildered, for the stroke Seemed severance sharp of kind companionships; And the strange pain of parting in him woke; And as at midnight when a branch down dips By sudden-swaying tempest roughly stirred, Some full-fledged nested bird, Being shaken forth, though fain of late to fly, Now flickers with weak wing and wistful cry,— So flickered his desires ’Twixt knighthood, and delights and duties of esquires. But even as with the morrow will uprise, Assured by azure skies, The bird, and dart, and swim in buoyant air,— Uprose his soul, and found the future free and fair! VIII. And girded with Farewell and with Godspeed He sprang upon his steed. And forth he fared along the broad bright way; And mild was the young sun, and wild the breeze, That seemed to blow to lands no eye had seen; And Pentecost had kindled all the trees To tremulous thin whispering flames of green, And given to each a sacred word to say; And wind-fine voices of the wind-borne birds Were ever woven in among their words. Soft-brooding o’er the hamlet where it lay, The circling hills stood stoled with holy white, For orchards brake to blossom in the night; And all the morning was one blown blue flower, And all the world was at its perfect hour. So fared he gladly, and his spirit yearned To do some deed fit for the deep new day. And on the broad bright way his armor burned, And showed him still, a shifting, waning star, To sight that followed far. Till, last, the fluctuant wood the flash did whelm, That flood-like rolled in light and shadow o’er his helm. IX. I know not more: nor if that helm did rust In weed of some drear wilderness down-thrust, Where in the watches lone Heaven’s host beheld him lying overthrown, While God yet judged him victor, God whose laws Note not the event of battle, but the cause. I know not more: nor if the nodding prize Of lustrous laurels ere that helm did crown, While God yet judged him vanquished, God whose eyes Saw how his Demon smote his Angel down In some forgotten field and left him low. Only the perfect hour is mine to know. X. O you who forth along the highway ride, Whose quest the whispering wood shall close around, Be all adventure high that may betide, And gentle all enchantments therein found! I would my song were as a trumpet-sound To nerve you and speed, and weld its notes with power To the remembrance of your perfect hour; To ring again and again, and to recall With the might of music, all: The prescience proud, the morning aspiration, But most the unuttered vow, the inward consecration!

I. As when, pursued by some swift Wind and bold Freed from the hollow dark Æolian hold, A cloud across the face of heaven is blown, And sunshine ceases from the fields, as mown By that long shadow sweeping o’er the wold, And the kind world turns cold— So o’er our chosen day Sails now a shadowing cloud that sweeps the sun away. Our chosen day, to Memory dedicate: To Memory, goddess great, A Proserpine that mid the dip and swell Of her wide meadows dim with asphodel Keeps aye one circle blest Lit with purpureal light unlike the rest: The field of our first youth, as luminous Through soberer recollections, as the place Where looked the Dardan on his father’s face In the land nebulous. The verdure of that valley is Spring’s own Ampler the air—then, limits were not known To us that breathed it; all that since has been Has its free freshness to our spirits proved. Oh circle blest indeed! Dear, dear the faces that therein have moved,— Sad, sad to know it changelessly decreed We may no more behold them, save therein! II. It was men’s wont of old, Ere spoken was the Vale, deep, three-fold, From the full heart above the unanswering lip Of the bronze urn, in water clear to dip A branch, and sprinkle all with pure light spray: Or broken bough of bay Or olive called the happy, since it yields Fruit in unnumbered fields: For thus they deemed the influence done away Of barren Death, that else a spell might lay On the warm living, subtly to annul Their powers, and strike their fortunes cold and dull. And we, who seek the soul in each old sign, Pleased if we may divine Likeness in difference, Proteus in disguise, And gazing backward with anointed eyes Across deep ages and the gulfs of race Know yet a brother’s face,— We hail, in this the antique olive gray, A meaning of to-day. III. For surely this pale bough, with hoary leaf, Is symbol of one still thought that is ours After the fire of grief: Thought not unhappy, fruitful thought, that showers A lustral rain of gentle tears and pure, Breaking the spell of Death, that else were sure To chain our living powers, To lock Joy fettered in the frozen breast: The one calm thought, the peaceful thought, They rest. They rest: brief rest was theirs Ere set of sun, and long and full of cares The laboring day. ’Tis now as night, soft night, Descending and enfolding, whereon bright Old hours of toil are shining, sanctified To stars that light and guide! IV. Ah, not with numbing of one noble hope Turn we from facing Death inexorable, But with strong souls and stable! Deep heaven hath surely scope To hold each earnest hour, a jewel new, A star to light and guide: And Toil, that shears all knotted puzzles through, A stellar sword against the dark descried Shall burn, like Perseus’ blade whereby the Gorgon died Far, far the Colchian shores, Weary the mid-sea laboring at the oars, And hard to pass the rough Symplegades: But, sail and storm-beat spars And wave-worn rudder pictured all in stars, Shines the ship Argo still above the Southern seas!

To the wall of the old green garden A butterfly quivering came; His wings on the sombre lichens Played like a yellow flame. He looked at the gray geraniums, And the sleepy four-o’-clocks; He looked at the low lanes bordered With the glossy-growing box. He longed for the peace and the silence, And the shadows that lengthened there, And his wee wild heart was weary Of skimming the endless air. And now in the old green garden,— I know not how it came,— A single pansy is blooming, Bright as a yellow flame. And whenever a gay gust passes, It quivers as if with pain, For the butterfly-soul that is in it Longs for the winds again!

In some past sunny season A shoot and stock were wed,— Made one by gardener’s cunning,— A white rose and a red. And now the rosy brothers, All wonder, wonder why Their sister flowers are fragile, And strangely pale, and shy. Those flush and shake with laughter, These blanch and thrill with fears, And through the leaves come stealing, Slow-shed, their dewy tears.

With green swords pointing to heaven, When the dawn flushed, glad to see, Like three gay knights in the garden Were flaunting the Fleurs-de-lis. And the plumes of two were purple, The color of hope and pride, And the last was snowy-crested, As a maiden soul should ride. But a wind from the west brought warning, And at noontide, a sound of power, We heard on the roofs loud-marching The steady feet of the shower. And the sharp green swords were broken, When the dusk fell, sad to see, And low, ah low, were lying The plumes of the Fleurs-de-lis!

Upon a showery night and still, Without a sound of warning, A trooper band surprised the hill, And held it in the morning. We were not waked by bugle-notes, No cheer our dreams invaded, And yet, at dawn, their yellow coats On the green slopes paraded. We careless folk the deed forgot; Till one day, idly walking, We marked upon the self-same spot A crowd of veterans talking. They shook their trembling heads and gray With pride and noiseless laughter; When, well-a-day! they blew away, And ne’er were heard of after!

There stands by the wood-path shaded A meek little beggar maid; Close under her mantle faded She is hidden like one afraid. Yet if you but lifted lightly That mantle of russet brown, She would spring up slender and sightly, In a smoke-blue silken gown. For she is a princess, fated Disguised in the wood to dwell, And all her life long has awaited The touch that should break the spell; And the Oak, that has cast around her His root like a wrinkled arm, Is the wild old wizard that bound her. Fast with his cruel charm. Is the princess worth your knowing? Then haste, for the spring is brief, And find the Hepatica growing, Hid under a last year’s leaf!

Once, it may be, the soft gray skies were dear, The clouds above in crowds, like sheep below, The bending of each kindly wrinkled tree; Or blossoms at the birth-time of the year, Or lambs unweaned, or water in still flow, In whose brown glass a girl her face might see. Such days are gone, and strange things come instead; For she has looked on other faces white, Pale bloom of fear, before war’s whirlwind blown; Has stooped, ah Heaven! in some low sheltering shed To tend dark wounds, the leaping arrow’s bite, While the cold death that hovered seemed her own. And in her hurt heart, o’er some grizzled head, The mother that shall never be has yearned; And love’s fine voice, she else shall never hear, Came to her as the call of saints long dead; And straightway all the passion in her burned, One altar-flame that hourly waxes clear. Hence goes she ever in a glimmering dream, And very oft will sudden stand at gaze, With blue, dim eyes that still not seem to see: For now the well-known ways with visions teem; Unfelt is toil, and summer one green daze, Till that the king be crowned, and France be free!

I. The dusky star-set blue of Southern night; Music and song approaching and receding; Sweet sudden laughter-showers of masquers leading Across the moon-white square a merry flight, With breeze-blown torch and tossing cresset bright; Gay Love and glad impetuous Youth unheeding, That float away to the lute’s lovely pleading Down flowing hours smooth-silvered with delight. And last, a figure of a race despised Shadow in light, groan echoing to the laugh; Bent haggard Age, with uplift shaken staff, At night’s noon knocking, knocking at the door Of a gray, silent house, of that he prized Empty forever and forever more. II. Lo, how the lips that Portia pressed but late Against the opened casket, blessing lead With the gold beauty of her bended head, In proud abandonment to that dear fate It gave her forth, the casket fortunate,— Lo, how these lips forego their wreathéd red Above the scroll that speaks his danger dread Who holds her lover in sad heart and great! Now in her spacious soul doth Sorrow meet Warm Joy, that, generous, gives the pale one place, And in the tremulous lines of her fair face An exquisite and soft remorse appears That Love, of right, must take the sovereign seat, And Friendship lower pass, for all his years. III. “I stand for law.” It is the hour: behold The stem storm-buffeted, a spear grown strong For sternest deed in wanton winds of wrong. See Shylock from his sombre garment’s fold The scales of Justice draw. No lavish gold Shall weigh with vengeance now; he hears loud song And triumphing of timbrels from the long Dim ranks of Israel’s branded dead untold. Oh, not alone this crooked blade unsheathes, Empowered at last, one wan and patient Jew: Just Judah stands for law. A spirit new Gives answer gracious as from heaven it rained. A powerful angel through a woman breathes: “The quality of mercy is not strained.”

I. What now remains, what now remains but night? Night hopeless, since the moon is in her grave! Late came a glorious light In one wide flood on spire and field and wave. It found a flowing way To secret places where the dead leaves lay; It won the half-hid stream To shy remembrance of her morning gleam; Then on the sky’s sharp shore Rolled back, a fading tide, and was no more. No more on spire and ivied window bright! No more on field and wave! What now remains, what now remains but night? Night hopeless, since the moon is in her grave! II. Dumb waits the dim, broad land, Like one who hears, yet cannot understand, Tidings of grief to come. The woods and waters, with the winds, are dumb. But now a breeze has found Sorrowful voice, and sobs along the ground: “Oh the lost light, the last, the best lost light! No more on field and wave!” What now remains, what now remains but night? Night hopeless, since the moon is in her grave! III. Hark, how the wind outswells! Tempting the wood’s dark heart till he rebels, And, shaking his black hair, Lifts up a cry of passion and despair! The groaning branches chafe Till scarce the small, hushed singing-birds are safe, Tossed rocking in the nest, Like gentle memories in a stormy breast. A shudder, as good angels passed in flight, Thrills over field and wave! What now remains, what now remains but night? Night lawless, while the moon is in her grave! IV. There falls a mighty hush: And forth from far recesses fern-scents rush, Faint as a waft from years Long past; they touch in heaven the springs of tears. In great drops, slow and warm, Breaks all at once the spirit of the storm. What now remains, what now remains but night? Night grieving, while the moon is in her grave! V. Behold! the rain is over: on the wave A new, a flashing light! Lo, she arises calm, The pale, the patient moon, and pours like balm Through the wet wood’s wrecked aisle Her own unutterably tender smile! There is no calm like that when storm is done; There is no pleasure keen as pain’s release; There is no joy that lies so deep as peace, No peace so deep as that by struggle won. Naught now remains, naught now remains but night— Night peaceful, with the moon on field and wave!

Poor Psyche, to a Power supernal wed, How strong a fate on this thy frailness fell! What strange ironic word shall here be read? Dead sign of immortality, farewell! I sigh not that the summer fields have lost One flying flower: who counts the butterflies? I sigh not that thy sunny hour was crossed The self-same Shadow surely waits mine eyes. Thy piteous terror of the appointed end, For this I sigh! The billow, poised above, Fell on thee like the beast that leaps to rend; Thou couldst not know thy bridegroom Death was Love! How otherwise thy sister, yea the Soul Bent brooding o’er these broken wings of thine!— Through all her house of mystery once she stole To the inmost room, and found a Face benign. Now whirl her where ye must, ye waves of Law— Aye, tear her vans, her painted hopes, apart! She cannot fear, remembering what she saw: Dark bridegroom Death, she knows thee Who thou art!

O chaste goddesse of the wodes grene, I am (thou wost) yet of thy compagnie, A mayde, and love hunting and venerie, And for to walke in the wodes wilde. —Chaucer’s “Knightes Tale.”

She greets the lily on the stalk; She shakes the soft hair from her brows; She wavers down the garden walk Beneath the bloomy boughs. She is the slenderest of maids; Her fair face strikes you like a star; The great stone tower her pathway shades— The prison where the Princes are. Across the dewy pleasance falls, All in the clear May morning light, The shadow of those evil walls That look so black by night. She is so glad, so wild a thing, Her heart sings like the lark all day; The unhooded falcon on the wing Is not more freely gay. In sun and wind doth she rejoice, And blithely drinks the airy blue, Yet loves the solemn pines that voice The grief she never knew. In silence of the woods apart Her sure swift step the Dryads know; Full oft she speeds the bounding hart, And draws the bending bow. Fine gleams across her spirit dart, And never living soul, saith she, Could make her choose for aye to lose Her own sweet company. But sometimes, when the moon is bright, So bright it almost drowns the stars, She thinks how some have lost delight Behind the prison bars. It makes her sad a little space, And casts a shadow on her look, As branches in a woody place Do flicker on a brook. Last night she had a dream of men, Dark faces strange with keen desire; She heard the blaring trumpet then, She saw the shields strike fire. The pomp of plumes, the crack of spears, Beyond her happy circle lie: Thank Heaven! she has but eighteen years, And loves the daisies and the sky. And yet across her garden falls, All in the clear May morning light, The shadow of the prison walls That look so black by night.

It is strange in Elsinore Since the day King Hamlet died. All the hearty sports of yore, Sledge and skate, are laid aside; Stilled the ancient mirth that rang, Boisterous, down the fire-lit halls; They forgot, at Yule, to hang Berried holly on the walls. Claudius lets the mead still flow For the blue-eyed thanes that love it; But they bend their brows above it, And forever, to and fro, ’Round the board dull murmurs go: “It is strange in Elsinore Since the day King Hamlet died.” And a swarm of courtiers flit, New in slashed and satined trim, With their freshly-fashioned wit And their littleness of limb,— Flit about the stairways wide, Till the pale Prince Hamlet smiles, As he walks, at twilight tide, Through the galleries and the aisles. For to him the castle seems— This old castle, Elsinore— Like a thing built up of dreams; And the king’s a mask, no more; And the courtiers seem but flights Of the painted butterflies; And the arras, wrought with fights, Grows alive before his eyes. Lo, its giant shapes of Danes, As without a wind it waves, Live more nobly than his thanes, Sullen carpers, ale-fed slaves! In the flickering of the fires, Through his sleep at night there pass Gay conceits and young desires— Faces out of memory’s glass, Fragments of the actor’s art, Student’s pleasures, college broils, Poesies that caught his heart, Chances with the fencing foils; Then he listens oftentimes With his boyhood’s simple glee, To dead Yorick’s quips and rhymes, Leaning on his father’s knee. To that mighty hand he clings, Tender love that stern face charms; All at once the casement rings As with strength of angry arms. From the couch he lifts his head, With a shudder and a start; All the fires are embers red, And a weight is on his heart. It is strange in Elsinore: Sure some marvel cometh soon! Underneath the icy moon Footsteps pat the icy floor; Voices haunt the midnights bleak, When the wind goes singing keen; And the hound, once kept so sleek, Slinks and whimpers and grows lean And the shivering sentinels, Timorous, on their lonesome round, Starting count the swinging bells, Starting at the hollow sound; And the pine-trees chafe and roar, Though the snow would keep them still. In the state there’s somewhat ill; It is strange in Elsinore.

In dream I passed the Gate that bears in black, “Here lies dead Hope.” The ineffable gold sky I saw between the pillars, looking back, And one young cloud, that slowly wandered by As though it wondered. Downward, all was dark, And through the dark I heard the sad souls cry. Anon, although alone, I whispered, “Hark! What lifeless laughter, crackling thorny-thin?” Then grew to sight what first I failed to mark When from the accustomed light I entered in,— A group that pleasured by that barren wall As Hell some delicate-blossomed close had been: One, gesturing, spake; the rest attended all. “Declare, ye circled shades, your home on earth! Declare the names your kindred used to call!” I cried, much marveling at their mirthless mirth. A woman wavered to the space half lit By that lost sky: “In Florence had we birth; That company thou seest, who chose to sit Ten sunny days, a fountain’s flight beside, Scattering the rose, and weaving tales of wit, What time by Arno many cursing died. Yes, Fiammetta am I. Thou little flame (Thus the grave Angel, to this Gate my guide), With what vain flickering hast thou proved thy name! Hast given to no chilled spirit aught of cheer; Shalt now be fed and kept alight with shame, And flicker evermore.” Then did appear Her set smile’s irony, and I discerned Through those her long dark languid eyes, right clear How far below her soul forever burned. Her sleeves of scarlet hung in many a shred; Her silver chains were all to tarnish turned, And crisped were the laurels on her head. “Alas! why camest thou to this place of pain,— Why, Pampinea, Lauretta, why?” I said, “Since many souls that bore the self-same stain Tread the last ledge of Purgatory mount, And trust, made pure, sweet Paradise to gain, Where sings the grove, where flows the twofold fount. Those, angels aid on fair green rustling wings; Why then are these thus held to hard account?” “Not such, O questioner, was the sin that brings Us hither; but on earth so weak a part We chose, that now no part in heavenly things Is granted us, nor yet will Hell’s deep heart Receive us, but in this dim borderland We dwell, and follow here our hollow art Of weaving tales, and are in semblance gay, Moved by a might we never may withstand. To our own dear delights we turned away; Forgot the city full of tears, forgot The tolling bells, abandoned even to pray; But couched in some delectable safe spot Saw breezy olives whiten like the sea, And babbled, fools, of Love, and knew him not, Who else had set us from the grim Gate free, Being giant-strong to save the souls of men. But Hate came to us, richly masked, and we Esteemed him Love; and now among us ten Sits very Hate. The life we prized is ours For aye! Yet not so far, I deem, this den From sound of suffering as our fields of flowers.” With that weird smile, she turned as if to go. Loud groaned the lurid City, the sullen fen Of Styx, and all that grief that lies below. “Farewell,” I sighed, “Fiammetta!” But she, “Not so! What life is thine? Perchance we meet again!”

Golden pride and fragrant light Are mine, and thereto was I born; Thronéd pomp is mine of right, Robes bestarred, or like the morn; All words of pearl to me belong Singers can string in shining song; Jewels, as perfect song-notes rare, Are mine own to waste or wear. Not less hath this right hand power Whereof such shows are but the flower,— Power deep-rooted in the earth That shakes to royal wrath or mirth. Yet, on many a deep-blue night, Clad and shod in coarsest wise, All my splendors must I slight For the smile of the common skies: My feet, that inlaid courts forego, Lanes of the dusty city know; I jest among the bronzéd slaves, And am well met with merry knaves, And quaft poor drink, and feel it glow; Steep me in simple weal and woe; Yea, learn to swim in those dim waves That, my palace flight before, Fawning fall with plausive roar. Hence rumors dear shall rise and rise Of my descending and disguise; Whereat the slave’s freed soul shall sing: A Caliph looked into his eyes: How is he, then, so mean a thing? By torchlight of such memories The Caliph in himself he sees. Thus, being loved, shall live my name, Glowing in the general flame Of the people’s hearth and heart; While men lie entombed apart That were as glorious and as great, Forgot, because they kept their state; Crumbling with the crumbling Past Into a dust unnamed at last, Whence their gems procured shall be By some wiser soul like me.

You leave it when spring blossoms fall, The old house where the roses grew. You gave them from the garden wall, Your roses, faint of breath and hue, Whose lovely like I never knew. Can I my flock of memories call To leave it when spring blossoms fall, The old house where the roses grew? No, no, they flit about the hall, And beat their wings, and cry for you. Be still: no more, no more at all, She enters now: apart we two Shall see in dreams, when late leaves fall, The House of Youth, where roses grew!

Speed, my Thought, oh speed, my Thought, Over the miles of snow! Never before, to bear to her door Love, with his looks aglow, Hadst thou so far to go! Take for a chime bells of my rhyme Over the miles of snow! Stand, my Thought, oh stand, my Thought! Fled are the miles of snow. Call, O Love! to her window above, In the voice her heart must know. ’Tis the time of mistletoe: Sing in the night to her window alight, In the night of stars and snow!

At Easter-tide, when lilies blow For font and altar, virgin things, When spikes of maple scarlet show, And thin clouds white as angels’ wings, While some fresh voice the message flings “The Lord is risen!”—from long ago Rise purified the tombéd Springs, At Easter-tide, when lilies blow. Oh, when the hallowed hour not brings Those gloried ghosts, whose brows we know, Nor I o’er change and distance throw, In midmost prayer, an arm that clings, Ah then, the deep-toned bell that rings I shall not hear, nor hear whatso The clear young voice triumphant sings, At Easter-tide, when lilies blow!

Voice, with what emulous fire thou singest free hearts of old fashion, English scorners of Spain, sweeping the blue sea-way, Sing me the daring of life for life, the magnanimous passion Of man for man in the mean populous streets of To-day! Hand, with what color and power thou couldst show, in the ring hot-sanded, Brown Bestiarius holding the lean tawn tiger at bay, Paint me the wrestle of Toil with the wild-beast Want, bare-handed; Shadow me forth a soul steadily facing To-day!

“Your Spring,” he said, “I hate: now blast, now breeze; All weathers mixt; sharp change, confusion dire. An easy-chair, a vast December fire, A fine old russet folio—give me these! Birds’ twitterings at the dawn my ear displease, My dreams disturb. What eye could ever tire Of orderly white ways? could e’er desire The foolish haze of May? Such wishes tease No sober mind!” But none the less did break Green from the glebe; the conéd chestnuts gave Faint fragrance out; the robin’s breast would make A flame a-field; the snow he could not save. And Spring on Spring, as wave in strong wave’s wake, Still rolls a bloomy billow o’er his grave.

He never feared to pry the stable stone That loving lichens clad with silvery gray; Torn ivies trembled as they slipped away, Their empty arms now loose and listless blown. Then turning, with that ardor all his own, “Behold, my better building!” he would say. “I rear as well as raze: nor by decay Nor foe nor fire can this be overthrown!” What was it? Had he keener sight than we? We saw the ruin, more we could not see; His blocks were jasper air, a dream his plan. We called him, Stormer; ever he replied, “Unbroken calm within my breast I hide.” Now God be judge betwixt us and this man!

“What, you!” his comrades cried, “who led us long Against the dense arrays of dullards’ thought, You quit us on the march, so quickly caught By such a strain, a simple peasant-song? That breath of old brown earth is strangely strong, To lure you to the fields where hinds untaught Toil slavish, or by common coinage bought, Or meanly fearful of the Master’s thong!” “Yea, dear the song,—although I may not sing; Yea, dear the soil,—although I delve it not! I fall not back, but peaceful pass beyond. For freedom’s sake your hearts are fiery-hot, Yet through the tramp I hear your fetters ring! Denial is the straitest kind of bond.”

Thou intimate, malign, benumbing power I cannot name, since names that men have made For shapes of evil shine beside thy shade, Who from the seat of mine own soul dost lower,— Darkness itself, that doth the light devour,— I feel thine urgency upon me laid To voice despair! Thou shalt not be obeyed; Thou art my master only for thine hour! As some sad-eyed, wan woman that is slave To the swart Moor, being bid her lute to bring, Since song of her strange land her lord doth crave, With lip a-tremble dares the scourge’s sting, Refusing,—thy brute might so far I brave: I will not sing what thou wouldst have me sing!

Oh soft, soft, soft, thou slender-footed maid, Cool-clad and fair, along the sultry street At broad blue blinding noon! Light fall thy feet As e’er the wood-nymphs’ fell while Pan was laid At mid-day in some choice Arcadian shade Where not an oak-leaf laughed, and if there beat Loud the wild heart of any Dryad fleet, Hearing, she girded her warm side afraid! For where, against yon hourly-growing wall, Dull-red, the ailantus-blossoms brighter show, A little while his weariness forgot, Outstretching in a chosen shadow small, With hot wet forehead on his lax arm low, Swart Labor sleeps, without whom thou wert not!

I. Conceive that Perfect Man, to whom we tend, The great Inheritor, on some sheer cape Between the morn and morn-bright main: a shape Wherein dead racer and dead wrestler blend In living speed and power. Dead sages send Their wisdom’s wine, matured like juice of grape, His heart to strengthen. Songs his lips escape That silenced lips of long-dead singers lend. Enough for such, such immortality! Well-paid, the press of trampling cares! the pains That bore the embodied joy! the home-stretch sobs! The doers passed: their best of deed remains, And still through many a mightier artery To feed a larger life their life-blood throbs. II. But those, whose useless breath was mixed with groans? Weak flesh, sick spirits, poor dumb dog-like eyes That could not read the star-signs in the skies, Now closed forever, sealed beneath their stones! In this fair-colored scheme what line atones,— Old hopes being calmly cancelled by the wise,— To those that died as any dull brute dies, And propped the Future but with bleaching bones? O Man to be, if perfect thou indeed, A horror thine inheritance appears, A Titan torture-fire thy rising day! For ancient ocean’s chant to thee must need Be all one wail of creatures cast away, And heaven’s own rainbow-smile a thing of tears!

Long summer days are my desire: Red suns, that drop as globes of fire Behind the sloped fields white with weed: Warm winds, that waft the wandering seed With silvery plume, now low, now higher: Pale clematis that o’er the brier Runs with frail feet that never tire Beside rough roads: your gifts I need, Long summer days! Yet come not, O profane ones! nigher, If in your stars be severance dire Of dear companionship decreed: For then, alas! ye were indeed, Too far outstripping my desire, Long summer days!

When daisy-snow abides no more In fields that long for freshening rains, The goldenrod, the flower you wore, Leans out beside the lanes: Leans softly, with the look of one Who has a tender word to say; Then, feeling breezes warm with sun, Turns unconfessed away. O’er lichened wall, o’er languid brook, By her my spirit is caressed, This golden girl, whom oft you took, Companion, to your breast: Who strives, with deftest maiden art, Your moods and manners to repeat, As stirred her still the gentle heart She felt so often beat. Forgive her, dear, for friendship’s sake, Though all too close she feign your ways! Since now the sight of her can make, In sad and sunless days, On all the world a sudden shine, A flood of sunlight glad and mild, Till song, in these still thoughts of mine, Breaks forth as though you smiled!

Robin of the valiant air And the ebon head, Proud, perhaps, that thou dost bear Breast so brave a red: Robin of the rounded throat, Straight of back and slim, Robin sending fearless note Through the dawn-haze dim: Through this haze of spring-time dawn, Tell me, hast thou seen,— From thy cool untrodden lawn, Shimmering silver-green, Where the broken blossoms lie, Colored like a shell,— Seen the maid I’d meet pass by? Dearest Robin, tell! How shouldst thou my true-love know From another one? By her pure cheek’s welcoming glow, Thee to look upon! By her eyes, that at thy call Straightway would declare Sister is her soul to all Fearless things and fair! Gone, with such a dashing dart, Such a whistle clear? What canst mean?—Ah, gallant heart, Bless thee! She is here.

When restful at the farmhouse we abode, One August mild whose memory lingers long, Not always did we note the happy song Of that brown brook that through the pastures flowed, Whose haunt the field-flowers tall would hide, yet showed; For farmstead sounds full oft would do it wrong, Or speech, or laughter light, or wheels along The shaded windings of the elmy road. Yet ever it flowed and sang to the warm day, As to a drowsy child old running rhymes, And ever at a pause was in the ear, Low-whispering where the goldenrod was gay, The assuring utterance of all still times. So is it with the voice the heart holds dear.

O Gentle Year, I’ll not entreat thee stay, Since now thy face is set to some far land Not named of men, untrod, a shadow-strand! And those most powerful prayers that lips could pray Would not obtain thy tarrying for a day. Yet, gliding from us with the sliding sand, Thou shalt not pass till I have kissed the hand That gave me joys, and took but time away. Can Love, that of the soul’s delight is born, Being matched in stature to the soul, increase? Not so: but Memory, leaning at his side, Waxes with every rosy draught of morn, And gathers to her every moon’s full peace, And dreaming on dark seas of summer, grows deep-eyed.

As drinking-cups whereof old rhymers tell, In twilight ages all with wonders rife, Were given, by mystic herb and midnight spell, The gift to summon Love—to summon Life!— So this for thee, lest aught should come between, This little claspéd cup, and charm of wine Love singing trod with feet of heavenly sheen, I set away: it shall be always thine. Thine to restore, with magic strong and strange, The might of meeting eyes and near, warm breath; That there shall be no Time nor any Change, Nor any room for such a thing as Death!

When nightfall on the Dardan plain Brings truce, and stilled are sounds of Mars, And mournful, mournful moans the main, And Simois’ ripples take the stars,— When thoughts of home float o’er the sea From fields afar, and heroes’ breasts, At last from brazen corselet free, Soft-heaving take those gentle guests,— Ah then, who sinks to sleep away, In tent, or galley scarlet-prowed, Nor doubts some deed he did to-day? That taunt was harsh, that boast was loud. How failed his eyes to recognize The god behind the foeman bold? Why gave he, under friendship’s guise, That mail of brass for mail of gold? Oh, is there one, of either host, Who never, sighing, weighs his cause At this grave hour, nor feels a ghost, Cool-handed, bid his courage pause? Two: dog-like droops the dreaming head Of mean Thersites evil-eyed; And Paris on his broidered bed Sleeps well at swan-white Helen’s side. No scruple sharp the selfist finds; The wrangler no remorses fret: The loved of gods in lofty minds Have room to house a high regret.

I. Young man with the keen blue eyes, Clear and bold! Why, as thou dost fare, With so searching air, Scannest thou each face thou dost behold, Each small flower, faint-colored like the skies, Growing by the way? Why gazest thou O’er the round hill’s brow? “Ah, in every bearded face, Looking deep, My heart’s friend seek I! In each maiden shy My heart’s dearest, dreamed upon in sleep; And in each fair flower a hope I trace; And the hill may hide the flashing sea That doth call to me!” II. Old man with the pale blue eyes, Mild and clear! Why, as thou dost fare, With that pondering air Into passing faces dost thou peer? Why dost pause, where dim like autumn skies Starry asters grow? Why gazest thou O’er the round hill’s brow? “Ah, from each gray-bearded face Would I know What that heart hath found; And in youths that bound See a youth who vanished long ago! In each flower a memory can I trace; O’er the hill the green, still place may be That doth wait for me!”

O brotherhood, with bay-crowned brows undaunted, Who passed serene along our crowded ways, Speak with us still! For we like Saul are haunted: Harp sullen spirits from these later days! Whate’er high hope ye had for man your brother, Breathe it, nor leave him like a prisoned slave To stare through bars upon a sight no other Than clouded skies that lighten on a grave. In these still alcoves give us gentle meeting, From dusky shelves kind arms about us fold, Till the New Age shall feel her chilled heart beating Restfully on the warm heart of the Old. Till we shall hear your voices mild and winning Steal through our doubt and discord, as outswells At fiercest noon, above a city’s dinning, The chiming music of cathedral bells: Music that lifts the thought from trodden places And coarse confusions that around us lie, Up to the calm of high cloud-silvered spaces, Where the tall spire points through the soundless sky.

I. “High as my heart!” Orlando answered thus, In careless Arden, Arden green to-day, Parrying with gallant wit the question gay Touching his lady’s stature. When of us Lips yet to be, in years lying yet before, Make question of the stature of thy fame, The words that we shall answer are the same: High as our hearts he stood. What man would more? Wide-sunned with love thy last late winter days, Whose blue mild morns were memories of the spring. To thee spring voices had not ceased to sing, Nor ever closed to thee fresh woodland ways Where underneath old leaves the violets are, And, shy as boyhood’s dream, spring beauties like a star. II. Thou wast not robbed of wonder when youth fled, But still the bud had promise to thine eyes, And beauty was not sundered from surprise, And reverent, as reverend, was thy head. Thy life was music, and thou mad’st it ours. Not thine, crude scorn of gentle household things; And yet thy spirit had the sea-bird’s wings, Nor rested long among the chestnut-flowers. Spain’s coast of charm, and all the North Sea’s cold Thou knewest, and thou knewest the soul of eld, And dusty scroll and volume we beheld To gold transmuted—not to hard-wrought gold, But that clear shining of the eastern air, When Helios rising shakes the splendor of his hair.

Thou Merlin, shut in the still wood of Death, Yet living! who through forest-calm dost roll A voice of guidance to the venturous soul As when thou hadst the common blood and breath: Far for thy praise my Fancy wandereth Through all wide lands, and fain would spoil the whole To heap crown-jewels at thine oak-tree’s bole. “Seek no bright words!” a wiser spirit saith. “Not such the sage can please: no seeker he! The world came to him in his tower, and told Secrets of might, unforced and loving-free; Nor held he Fancy’s choice true gems and gold. Kneel but and say: One grateful here behold! Of mine own treasure thou didst give the key!”

Two sauntering, hand in hand, one happy day, Along a pleasant path that neither knew, Came, glad and startled, on the sudden blue, With sails unclouded, of a sunny bay, And hollowing toward the wave a meadow, gray With honey-giving growths thick-spread as dew. There goatskin-girt, with limbs like bronze in hue, Free-bathed in sun and wind, a shepherd lay. Asleep, his reed pipe fallen by his knee; And late, it seemed, a song had left his lips. We heard but lapping ripple, prattling bee Above the thyme’s dim-purple, downy tips; Beyond, once beat by oars of beakéd ships, Far outward swept the calm, the storied sea.

Hark! on this wind eternal Voices ride. Oh, hark! out of the deep mysterious East The Voices of Disciple and High-Priest, Betrayer, and Denier, and Denied: Strong prayers at midnight by a streamlet-side, And broken sayings at a solemn feast; A sea-like sound: “Barabbas be released!” A fiercer wave: “Let Him be crucified!” And now arise new voices blent with these, In sober chorals, linkéd like the beads Of some brown chaplet; breathing pieties Of faithful souls that sifted not the creeds. The names of those that sang the loiterer reads In God’s green acre, spired with poplar-trees.

Not most the crouching spring, the forest-roar, The lion-pace, the lion-power express; By such strong signs as these he conquers less Than in that pulse-beat’s time, when, wounded sore, He gathers all himself, and stands once more Unshaken in his sombre kingliness, Too great the deadly keenness to confess Of traitor steel sent clean to the heart’s core: Sighs Iago, bent in soothing half-embrace, “A little this hath dashed your mood, I wot!” Then, majesty at full in eyes and face, Large soul to the lower’s level stooping not, Dark head thrown back, with that grand Southern grace He waves his eloquent hands—“Nay, not a jot!”

A wind of spring that whirls the feignéd snows Of blossom-petals in the face, and flees: Elusive, made of mirthful mockeries, Yet tender with the prescience of the rose; A strain desired, that through the memory goes, Too subtle-slender for the voice to seize; A flame dissembled, only lit to tease, Whose touch were half a kiss, if one but knows. She shows by Leonato’s dove-like daughter A falcon, by a prince to be possessed, Gay-graced with bells that ever chiming are; In azure of the bright Sicilian water, A billow that has rapt into its breast The swayed reflection of a dancing star!

I. Armed soul that ridest through a land of peace, Her borders filled with finest of the wheat, Her children reaping, where with weary feet Sad sowers trod who taste not the increase: We hear thy trump, whose echo shall not cease, In hush of night resounding, while we meet Around unthreatened fires, but pressing fleet Thou passest, proud, to claim thy kin’s release; Thy trump, that doth arraign the entombèd Past, Till shapes that march as if with martyr-psalm In glow and gloom of kindly hearths we see: And now to present war a keener blast Calls loud, and spirits late content and calm Spring up enforced, and spur to follow thee! II. To war? What words are mine, that do thee wrong! Whose suit is powerful Peace, resplendent-shod, Fair on the mountains; who wouldst set the rod Borne as a staff o’er stony ways and long Yet withered not, to strike new root and strong Deep in its nursing earth. Oh, there the clod Were virtue, and the sun the smile of God, And buds should break to bloom, as maids to song! Aye, would for thee that,—even as the dove Whose silver wings have o’er waste places passed, When in the lonely west the evening burns, Her unforgetful breast a-throb with love, To her own pillared porch of flight returns,— On the old hills might Israel rest at last!

Then will I, tasting, say— This is arbutus’ gift, Reached from the leafy drift On a glistening April day. Wild Honey.

Arbutus’ gift, in very truth, I deem These gathered, golden songs that keep the gleam Of early sunlight through the awakened wood; The vernal spirits of the sisterhood There cloistered, rosy-cool and vestal-shy, Are in these lucent cells enforced to lie; Here bides the baffling fragrance, here the charm. Henceforth I fear not frosty Hiems’ harm, Though all his bluff besiegers he should bring; Behold, my bookshelf lodges Ver, the Spring!

—Is this ... the posy of a ring? Hamlet.

I were not worth you, could I long for you; But should you come, you would find me ready. The lamp is lighted, the flame is steady: Over the strait I toss this song for you!

Too-perfect Rose, thy heavy breath has power To wake a dim, an unexplained regret: Art body to the soul of some deep hour That all my seasons have not yielded yet? But if it be so—Hour, too-perfect Hour, Ah, blow not full, though all the yearning days Should tremble bud-like, since the wind must shower Thine unreturning grace along the ways!

—lumenque juventæ Purpureum—

O smile of spring, that o’er the worn gray brow Of some old many-memoried house dost run, The very light of purple Youth art thou The laughing goddess shed upon her son!

“It is the nightingale, and not the lark!” O poet-heart, enamored of the Past, That Romeo with the ruby in his ear! No longer sicken to detain the dark: Thine eyes along the clear horizon cast: Behold, a fresh imperious dawn is here!

When State Street homes were stately still; When out of town was Murray Hill; In late-deceased “old times” Of vast, embowering bonnet-shapes, And creamy-crinkled Canton crapes, And florid annual-rhymes, He owned a small suburban seat Where now you see a modern street, A monochrome of brown; The sad “brown-brown” of Dante’s dreams, A twilight turned to stone, that seems To weight our city down. Through leafy chestnuts whitely showed The pillared front of his abode: A garden girt it ’round, Where pungent box did trim enclose The marigold and cabbage-rose, And “pi’ny” heavy-crowned. Yea, whatso sweets, the changing year’s, He most affected. Gone: but here’s His face who loved them so. Old eyes like sherry, warm and mild; A cheek clear-hued as cheek of child; Sleek head, a sphere of snow. His mouth was pious, and his nose Patrician; with which mould there goes A disaffected view. In those sublime, be-oratored, Spread-eagle days, his soul deplored So much red-white-and-blue! In umber ink, with S’s long, He left behind him censure strong In stiffest phrases clothed; But Time—a pleasant jest enough!— Has turned the tory leaves to buff, The liberal hue he loathed. Of many a gentle deed he made Brief simple record. Never fade Those everlasting-flowers That spring up wild by good men’s walks; Opinions wither on their stalks, And sere grow Fashion’s bowers. Erect, be-frilled, in neckcloth tall, His semblance sits, removed from all Our needs and noises new; Released from all the rent we pay As tenants of the large To-day, Cool, in a background blue. And he, beneath a cherub chipped, Plump, squamous-pinioned, pouting-lipped, Sleeps calm where Trinity Points finger dark to clouds that fleet; A warning, seen from surging street, A welcome, seen from sea. There fall, ghosts glorified of tears Shed for the dead in buried years, The silver notes of chimes; And there, with not unreverent hand Though light, I lay this “greene garlànd,” This woven wreath of rhymes.

O my gorgeous-mailéd knight, Whom a finger-tip can fright! At my touch upstarting shy, With a silvery-rolling eye, Leaping, winding, sudden splashing, This way dashing, that way flashing! I’ll not harm thee; lie thou still; Heave not fin nor glittering gill; Globe-kept captive, thou shalt find Fellow-feeling makes me kind. I, too, own a hermit’s heart, Swift at aught unknown to start: And I, too, am walled about, Though the sunbeams find me out. Scarce I see the stirring world More than thou the brook breeze-curled, But must make, like thee, delight From a few small pebbles white; Trifles, that may fancy bear To some rippled pleasance rare. Let thy thought, free-swimming, make This, thy globe, a spring-fed lake, And with water crystal-bright I’ll refresh it morn and night, That such dreams the easier be: Deal, sweet Fates! as well by me.

Buccaneer with blackest sails, Steering home by compass true, Now that all the rich West pales From its ingot-hue! Would that compass in thy breast Thou couldst lend, for guiding me here my Hope hath made her nest— In how far a tree! Swerving not, nor stooping low, To that dear, that distant mark Could I undiverted go, What were coming dark? —Careless of the twilight ground, O’er the wood and o’er the stream Still he sails, with hollow sound Strange, as in a dream!

Here’s awa’ wi’ bairnies’ fears! Here’s a health to comin’ years! They maun bring me smiles wi’ tears; Smiles are wisdom’s wealth. Sae I’ll sing it in their ears: “I’m na scared o’ ye, my dears! To ye canty comin’ years Here’s a hearty health! “Just a line o’ lasses ye, Steppin’ shy, but blinkin’ slee; There’s a spark in ilk sweet e’e To my soul declares Frowns o’ yours are light to dree; Ilka lip so bright o’ blee Keeps in guard a kiss to gie To the lad that dares!”

O Jamie MacPherson! Ye’re sic a slee person! I kenned ye for keen ever sin’ we were wee; Ye hae stown my ain mither, hae stown my ain brither, Hae stown my ain sister awa’ frae me! At kirk door they see’d ye—sic follies, I rede ye, Are na for the likes o’ that Sabbath-day place; Ye leukit at me wi’ the tear in your e’e, And ye staw them awa’ wi’ your lang droopit face. Sic knittin’ o’ brows, mon, sic shakin’ o’ pows, mon, Sic praisin’ of ye, mon, for douce and genteel! Mither canna get sleep for the thocht o’ your sheep, Nor Meg for the thocht o’ the dool ye maun feel. E’en dumb dozin’ Collie has heard o’ my folly, And leuks at me sidelang whenever I pass, His e’e sadly blinkin’, and sighs while down-sinkin’, As though he were thinkin’, “Puir daft feckless lass!” Naught for it but roamin’ late into the gloamin’ (Sin’ now it’s na canty beside the hearthstane), When the pale primsie moon she is walkin’ aboon, But nae lass below her gaes roamin’ alane! A lad I hae seen, he has witchin’ black e’en— O Jamie MacPherson, ye’re wonderfu’ slee! Ye hae stown my ain mither, hae stown my ain brither, But Robin has stown my ain heart frae me!

I’m fain for toys o’ Fortune whyles; I hae no hate for ranks and styles; But lairdship o’ the braw blue isles I’d e’en let pass For are o’ her fine tremblin’ smiles— My ain, ain lass! I aiblins dream on days to be, An’ feel my heart leap out a wee; But friendly Fate can grant nae fee Could e’er surpass Her e’en, sae dark wi’ luve to me— My ain, ain lass! Whyles, gray and ghaistly, by me stand Auld memories in an eerie band; But swift as prints on slidin’ sand Sic phantoms pass, If sae I baud her warm, warm hand, My ain, ain lass! The past she sweetens through and through, An’, far as heaven, the future too; For, surely, as her dear soul’s due, They’ll let me pass! Wi’out me there what wad she do, My ain, ain lass?

While gray was the summer evening, Hast never a small sprite seen Lighting the fragrant torches For the feast of the Fairy Queen? The buds on the primrose-bushes Upspring into yellow light But ever the wee deft spirit Escapes my bewildered sight. Yet oft, through the dusky garden, A dainty white moth will fly, Or, pink as a pink rose-petal, One lightly will waver by. Perhaps ’tis the shape he comes in, Perhaps it is he indeed, Sir Moth, or the merry Cobweb, Or the whimsical Mustard-seed!

Twelve daughters of the Trumpet-vine Spread wide their scarlet silks to-day. Sir Summer Breeze, my gossip fine, Can you the reason say? “Oh listen while I whisper low! The Honeysuckle told the Bee, (Her girls wore out their gowns, you know!) And Master Buzz told me. “’Twas done for Some One’s sake, I ween, Who by and by will hither float, All gay in gold and emerald green, With rubies round his throat! “You doubt me? Hearken! There he went, The flashing Prince of Idle Hours, Whose silvery sing-song compliment Delights the flattered flowers!”

“Where are my Five Wits gone, And will they come back soon?” They’re gone a-gathering wool In the Valleys of the Moon. There the little Dream-Sheep, That look like mounds of snow, Through the green, green meadows Go grazing to and fro. Thither have I sent them, Those Five Wits of mine, Two with bags, and two with crooks, And one with shears that shine. They catch the little Dream-Sheep And cut their fleece away, All to weave a story from Upon another day!

Where the Sun sails bold on the Sea of Gold Past the Violet Islands fair, And the ragged shapes of the Rosy Capes And the Castles of the Air, Can you call aright all that country bright That is washed by waves like flame? ’Tis the coast admired, ’tis the clime desired— ’Tis the Land Without a Name! And the way to go, since you fain would know, Is to charter the Crescent Ship, All of silver pale, with a cobweb sail, And merrily does she dip! There’s a crew of Hopes at her filmy ropes, And on board that ship of fame Many a longing Dream seeks the shores agleam Of the Land Without a Name!

Now while rest the happy herds, And in folds the fleecy sheep, All the boughs are full of birds, Crowding, sound asleep. Sleep, sleep, sleep, Under the fair, fair flocks of stars That roam all night and know no bars, Sleep, sweet, sleep! Now if we an Owl could ride,— Yes, an Owl with yellow eyes, Globy lanterns, clear and wide, Flaming while he flies,— We should see the pretty things, Pretty little sleepy souls! All their heads beneath their wings, Blind with sleep as moles! Sleep, sleep, sleep, Under the wild, winged winds that fly All night long across the sky, Sleep, sweet, sleep!