SYLVAN LEAVES

“Let not the immemorial May-Day mirth Of jocund Pan desert the needy earth—” Is there a rumour of it? Behold now Sylvia’s eyebrow, firm and fine, Lift up at will its merry mountain line, For that’s the humour of it— And sweetly risen, lo, that line shall then Return to lovely gravity again, As ’twere in choosing of it, The while a sylvan sparkle, underneath, Flashes unbidden from the eyelid’s sheath, In plain refusing of it!

Sylvia Brown-Eyes, Sylvia Blue-Eyes, Editresses wise (not too wise) Will offer shortly, in the sweet o’ the year, The promised literary treat o’ the year, Something quite new and unforeseen, The Sylvan Magazine! The bright romance, the timely article Will there be found, without a particle Of overweening would-be-greatness, Or yet of prune-and-prism sedateness; Halfway ’twixt saucy and serene Is the Sylvan Magazine! The pine boughs, in their style seigniorial, Will chant for us an editorial; Our printer’s devil is a rabbit Far-noted for his clerkly habit; The hermit thrush will be our dean, In the Sylvan Magazine. Out of the pens of babes and sucklings Is food for thought and pensive chucklings; Our essays on “Advice to Mothers” Are widely known; then there are others, As, “When Should Parents Intervene?” In the Sylvan Magazine. We print a serial, thrilling, forceful, On “Janet Olyphant,” resourceful Heroine of rides on trolleys; A ballad called “Louise’s Follies;” “The Porter Diamond” sheds a sheen On the Sylvan Magazine. Also, we serve for your refection. In continuity collection, R. P.’s “Adventures of a Cowboy:” We have a “Poem on a Plowboy,” And there’ll be limericks on the green, In the Sylvan Magazine. Our hand-wrought types, our ample marges Are given you at lowest charges Consistent with our great initial Expense—something quite sacrificial! It offers lines to read between, The Sylvan Magazine! We sell no copies; we’ve consented One fair copy may be rented, Weekly, for a dime and nickel; We wish no clients false or fickle, Or who have hands at all unclean, For the Sylvan Magazine. The proceeds go to help a movement Now on foot, our own improvement, Often mentioned to the heedful As something lacking, yet most needful: A fact we hope you will not glean From the Sylvan Magazine.

As we ride and we ride on our high, high horses To Windsor town, where the Merry Wives dwell, The maiden-fern spangles the banks where our course is, And squirrel-scamps scamper, to wish us well; The jewel-bird, out of the elm he’s adorning, Flings down for our favor his jewels of song, As we ride far and fast in the dews of the morning, And Blow-Me-Down runs to the river along.

As they ride and they ride on their proud, proud ponies By Beaver’s ways, or by Blow-Me-Down, Our hearts beat rejoicing since neither alone is, And blue eyes ride close to the eyes of brown: Paired and abreast, twin angels are winging By cardinal’s flag or by partridge hen, And safe in the sunset, with chatter and singing, Twin angels on horseback ride homeward again!

Gentles, if it be fit for you To sport in simple way, Read me this riddle, Eyes-of-Blue, Brown-Eyes, and Eyes-of-Gray: “What is the bravest sight on earth For girl or boy or man, In magic, wit, or work, or worth, Come answer, you who can!”

Cried Brown-Eyes quick, “Of course, of course, I know the very thing— It is my marvel Goldie-horse, Just watch him on the wing! “His golden mail-coat splashes All the highroad with its glow, And where his fine foot flashes, There the lightnings come and go; “For a sky-thing you’d mistake him, Since he stole the stars for eyes; It was Heaven and earth to make him, With his nostril wide and wise; “His nostril is a red, red rose, And very proud his crest; Of all brave shows this brave world knows, I count a horse the best!”

“Not so,” sweet Eyes-of-Gray replied, “The bravest sight, for me, Who dwell these wonder-hills beside, Is oh, the far-off sea! “And how could any horse at all, With rider or without, Compare with waves that rise and fall, And pace with mighty shout? “Behold, the breakers toss their manes At call of Lady Moon, Who, though she waxes, though she wanes, Still guides them, night and noon: “And when her moonbeams all come forth To lead the waves a dance, A lordlier pageant, south or north, I know will never chance!”

“If you, Brown-Eyes, a realm would give Your horse to have and hold, If you, Gray-Eyes, would love and live Beside the ocean old, “Then Eyes-of-Blue, lift up your voice! Of all brave shows there are— Would steed or statue be your choice, Or brook or hill or star?

“What, Eyes-of-Blue, so pensive still? Beneath your sylvan arch A light-foot fancy flits at will, Whether in dance or march;” “Far lovelier,” says that sylvan look, “Than aught that’s for the riding— Deeper than sea, fairer than brook— The thought my heart is hiding! “For oh, I see, and very plain, The sight I hold most dear— My mother walking up the lane, Coming to meet me here.”

I Asked the Dandelion’s ghost, Or should I go, or should I stay, O? Full well I knew what I wished most; I asked the Dandelion’s ghost, And all her little wingèd host Blew off, flew off, and far away, O! I asked the Dandelion’s ghost, Or should I go, or should I stay, O? The Dandelion’s ghost was right, My Mother wanted me at home, so! Almost I knew, believed it quite, The Dandelion’s ghost was right; But farther off were flowers more bright, And Will-o’-the-Wisp guides those that roam so! The Dandelion’s ghost was right, My Mother wanted me at home, so!

O busy Pine, like Mother of mine, And do you never rest Your fingers fine, that weave and twine Above the sparrow’s nest? I see your face, from this my place; Here at your feet I lie, And dreaming, trace your dim rich lace Far-off, against the sky. From morn till eve, your branches weave Those wondrous waving webs, That fall and heave, that lure and leave, As sea-tide flows and ebbs. You swing to me, you bring to me Old tales, thoughts new-unfurled, That cling to me, that sing to me, As from another world: Almost I know I am to go A journey, land and main; O Pine, bend low, and tell me so, Whisper it, very plain!

O Pine-tree, singing and whispering low, “Some one is coming who never will come,” And is it a music from long ago, O Pine-tree, singing and whispering low, Or is it a message that Mother must know, The same, perhaps, that the brown bees hum, O Pine-tree, singing and whispering low, “Some one is coming who never will come?” Oh, is it a tale of the seas and the ships, “Some one is coming who never will come,” Wing’d words, all pearly from pixies’ lips, Oh, is it a tale of the seas and the ships, Tall masts, bright sails, and starry trips, Or a drooping flag and a muffled drum, Oh, is it a tale of the seas and the ships, “Some one is coming who never will come?” It is told in the books on the high, high shelves, “Some one is coming who never will come;” O Pine-tree, your story that came from the elves, It is told in the books on the high, high shelves, It is something we long ago dreamed, ourselves! True are the words that said by the dumb, It is told in the books on the high, high shelves, “Some one is coming who never will come!”

O Sylvia, loved of the leaves, Thy spirit forever is free! No longer a dryad who grieves, O Sylvia, loved of the leaves, Thy spirit her prison now cleaves: Alas, still imprison’d are we! O Sylvia, loved of the leaves. Thy spirit forever is free! Fair Fia, fare home in the gloaming, Thy footfall the ring-fairies know! Thy heart is a leal heart for homing, Fair Fia, fare home in the gloaming, And whisper us tales of thy roaming, When lamps of the fireflies glow: Fair Fia, fare home in the gloaming, Thy footfall the ring-fairies know! And wilt thou not stay till the starlight Shall silver thy grove and its floor? Behold now that lone star afar, light, And wilt thou not stay till the starlight Call elves, light as only elves are light, To dance out their gossamer lore? And wilt thou not stay till the starlight Shall silver thy grove and its floor? Sweet Sylvia, loved past our telling, Thy wing-time knows Here, and Beyond: No longer a dryad, tree-dwelling, Sweet Sylvia, loved past our telling, All pathways are thine for compelling, While we, alas, still wear our bond: Sweet Sylvia, loved past our telling, Thy wing-time knows Here, and Beyond!