LYRICS FROM SYLVIA’S MASQUE TO-MORROW LAND

Sweet Mother, when I close my eyes, Why are the sights I see More strange than when, all wide and wise, They look outside of me? (Rest now, rest now, little child!) I wish that I could tell you true What wondrous shapes there are Behind my eyes! What colors, too! But speaking sends them far, (Too far, too far, little child!) Yes, far, far off! Sometimes one word Will seem to give them wings, And each is like a sparrow-bird That hears some frightening things, (Fear not, fear not, little child!) And flies so high and swift away, Over the hill and hollow; Sometimes, those sights that never stay, I wish that I might follow, (Nay, follow not, little child!) But if the lamps at home were lit, And it was night, and stars were few, Would I not be afraid of it, And very lonely if I flew? (And lonely we, little child!) And if I feared some strange dark cloud And strange dark noises seemed to be— Then Mother, if I called aloud, O Mother, could you come to me? (Oh, if, and if, little child!)

Call o’ the rain, again, so plain, Dashing and splashing athwart the pane: “Fia, Fia, flee away now, Away with us, off in the rain! Robin Goodfellow and Nimbletoes, Look how they laugh at their spattered hose! Bends the bough, bows the rose, Rose that under your casement blows; Fia, Fia, flee away now, Away with us, off in the rain!” “I’m watching the rain from my window-seat; All in the open is misty and sweet; Nimble and Robin are playfellows meet, But were I away with them, Mother would greet! “I bend my eyes but to broidered rose, That silkily under my needle glows— Silkily, sulkily, ah, who knows— Satin-stitch, brier-stitch—all of those?” Call o’ the rain once more, once more, And blithe it batters the wide white door: “Fia, Fia, for love of the leaves, Away with us now in the mist! The great god Pan is tuning his stops; Behold him now tossing the diamond drops From his ears and his nose and his grapes and his hops, And look at the pearls on the poppy-tops! Fia, Fia, for love of the leaves, Away with us now in the mist!” “The great god Pan must wipe his own tears, Now, as ever for thousands of years; Good is the rain for his nose and his ears, For his grapes and his hops, there’s nobody fears! “And I, as before, I must do as I’ve tried, Though it’s little I like in my bower to bide, And liever I’d range by the dim brookside, And ho, for a high horse to ride astride!”

“Fair Fia, gird thy kirtle green, To fare afar, our Faery Queen; Fair Fia, gird thy kirtle green, So silken-fine, of magic sheen: “Let all thy golden hair fall down, For wearing o’ the Faery Crown, And swift slip on thy silver shoon, To fare away with us eftsoon! “All we, Wee People o’ the Wood, We watched thy merry maidenhood; All we, Wee People o’ the Wood, We waited in thy neighborhood, “That we might lead thee by the hand To our bright realm, To-morrow Land: And ho, the forest green for us, And thou, the only Queen for us!”

“No crown of faery gold I’ll dree— My brothers bold weave wreaths for me; No crown of faery gold I’ll dree, Howe’er I love ye, People Wee! “I love mine own true kinsfolk more, I love our own house, roof to door, “And oh, my mother’s tears would fall, And aye I’d hear my father call! “Oh hark, no sounds of raindrops, these, Borne hither on a faery breeze— Oh hark, no sounds of raindrops, these, But Mother, sobbing ’neath the trees! “The horn my little brother blows Is ringing now, in sport I chose “For him: that light there in the gloom Is shining from my father’s room!”

“Nay, little Queen, what thou dost see Is elfin firelight for thy glee: Nay, Faery Queen, what thou dost see Is fireflies’ joy in greeting thee: And Elfland’s horns thou hearest, those Of Flitterwing and Nimbletoes; Of sobs and raindrops, not at all, Save flung from faery waterfall!”

“Sylvia Fia, the Silver Knight, On faery charger, dazzling-white, Awaits thee here in the still moonlight!” “Better I love my good red roan, To ride and to ride by my maiden lone, Or off with my brother to Rocking Stone!” “Sylvia Fia, a Faery Queen May ride at her liking, or morn, or e’en, Or sma’ hours, ’a hours, by and between! “Sacred and safe in the harvest moon Ride golden crown and silver shoon; Then up and away by the sailing moon!”

The Bumblebees far from the Larkspur spurred; The Honeybees flew from the Foxgloves, their loves, And sang with the Bumblebees, word for word, (The Bumblebees, far from the Larkspur spurred!) They all sang the slumber song Sylvia heard, Commingling their notes with the little gray dove’s: The Bumblebees far from the Larkspur spurred, The Honeybees flew from the Foxgloves, their loves. O Honeybees, hum it—let Sylvia slumber; And hum it and drum it, as low as ye may! O Bumblebees, gold bees, and bees all in umber, O Honeybees, hum it—let Sylvia slumber, Let naught but fair dreaming her eyelids encumber, Till we to To-morrow Land bear her away— O Honeybees, hum it—let Sylvia slumber, And hum it and drum it, as low as ye may!

I dreamed of journeys all the night; Com’st thou, or shall I go, sweet Love? Rough roads, far glens, ways wild and bright— I dreamed of journeys all the night, Of tangled travel, faery flight! This morn, I weep to find thy glove; I dreamed of journeys all the night; Com’st thou, or shall I go, sweet Love? What viewless voyage might be meant For thee, or me, or for us twain? Low sings my soul, almost content, “What viewless voyage might be meant By those far voices, faintly blent?” To know, to go, my soul were fain— What viewless voyage might be meant For thee, or me, or for us twain?

Chipmunk ahoy there! Hi there! Ho! Tell us thy joy there, aloft and alow! Hast thou no pockets at all in thy breeks, Must stuff my butternuts all in thy cheeks? Trim now thy sail to the windward, O! Thou find’st in me no chipmunk foe— Thy bugle eyes, and thy plume I know; I know thy sallies, scampers, squeaks, Chipmunk ahoy! From Summer sun to Winter snow O Chipmunk, thou and I must go! Then nab my nuts, or loot my leeks, Take as thou wilt for the dreary weeks! Next Spring, thy merry striped jacket show, Chipmunk ahoy!

Yeave ho, my Lady Robin, lass, What’s that great wriggling rope you tug Out of the heartstrings of the grass— Indeed, no common or garden slug! A veritable dragon, he, And you, a tiny Saint Georgette; Yeave ho, my Lady Robin, we Stand by! Fair play! You’ll have him yet! So far beyond our senses five, What wondrous robin-sense have you, To find ’neath turf the griffin’s hive? Yeave ho, my Lady Robin, do! Your tail is worn, your chest shows thin From lengthy sittings on blue eggs, But you’ve the race of life to win, On valiant little yellow legs! Your big-beaked moon-calf of a son, Since all his mind is in his mouth, Still follows where your game is won, And calls for food from north to south; He’s stouter, too, than you, my dear, But little thought is his, I trow, To fight the foe while you are near— Yeave ho, my Lady Robin, now! Again, again, with might and main, You teach your son the robin-trick, But oh, he loses all, ’tis plain! Yeave ho, my Lady Robin, quick! Have at that big one, then, yeave ho! Too bad your son is such a dunce! Dear me, you let that big one go? Well, let the moral go, for once!

Song Sparrow, safe in a Spiræa, Close beside the garden gate, Still trilling, “Oh, what joy to be a Song Sparrow, safe in a Spiræa!” May no unkindly eye e’er see a Nest there, eggs, or mate, Song Sparrow, safe in a Spiræa, Close beside the garden gate. Because no sparrow ever falls, Without our Heavenly Father’s will, How sweetly now Song Sparrow calls, “Because no sparrow ever falls, My birdlings, rest within these walls I builded; little hearts, lie still; Because no sparrow ever falls, Without our Heavenly Father’s will!”

I am the bird of God; I sing for Him; From forest far, upon His nod, I wing for Him: You seldom spy my wings, Or win my nest; You wonder oft, what manner of things Are in my nest: You list my lay, and say My name again; Hearing my song, you cannot stay The same again; Because God’s singer’s voice, Caressing the air, Still moves your heart, without your choice, To confessing, and prayer; Because I am God’s bird, And wing to Him, Finding on earth, a heavenly word To bring to Him!

Better not ask a poplar tree, what weather for your Maying, For rain, rain, rain, and showers she forever will be saying! Far better ask the birds and skies To tell you true how the land lies, What time ’twill be when Robinettes are really out and straying, Or when the little long-legged lambs will show some grace in playing, What hope the slim young moon holds out, what new of neighbors’ haying! Oh, brooks will tell, or cloud that flies, Better not ask the poplar tree! Better not ask, Better not! When lover and a loveress walk lagging and delaying, Beneath a wagging poplar tree, that listens while a-swaying, All you who would be weather-wise In questions quick and slow replies, Speak to the breeze, the other trees,—the briar-rose hears all praying,— Better not ask the poplar tree! Better not ask, Better not!