DAY-DREAMS

If there were dreams to sell, What would you buy? Some cost a passing bell; Some a light sigh, That shakes from Life’s fresh crown Only a rose-leaf down. If there were dreams to sell, Merry and sad to tell, And the crier rang the bell, What would you buy? A cottage lone and still, With bowers nigh, Shadowy, my woes to still, Until I die. Such pearl from Life’s fresh crown Fain would I shake me down. Were dreams to have at will, This would best heal my ill, This would I buy.

In the pleasant orchard closes, “God bless all our gains,” say we; But “May God bless all our losses,” Better suits with our degree.— Listen gentle—ay, and simple! Listen children on the knee! Green the land is where my daily Steps in jocund childhood played— Dimpled close with hill and valley, Dappled very close with shade; Summer-snow of apple blossoms, running up from glade to glade. There is one hill I see nearer, In my vision of the rest; And a little wood seems clearer, As it climbeth from the west, Sideway from the tree-locked valley, to the airy upland crest. Small the wood is, green with hazels, And, completing the ascent, Where the wind blows and sun dazzles, Thrills in leafy tremblement: Like a heart that, after climbing, beateth quickly through content. Not a step the wood advances O’er the open hill-top’s bound: There, in green arrest, the branches See their image on the ground: You may walk between them smiling, glad with sight and glad with sound. For you hearken on your right hand, How the birds do leap and call In the greenwood, out of sight and Out of reach and fear of all; And the squirrels crack the filberts, through their cheerful madrigal. On your left, the sheep are cropping The slant grass and daisies pale; And five apple-trees stand, dropping Separate shadows toward the vale, Over which, in choral silence, the hills look you their “All hail!” Yet in childhood little prized I That fair walk and far survey: ’Twas a straight walk, unadvised by The least mischief worth a nay— Up and down—as dull as grammar on an eve of holiday! But the wood, all close and clenching Bough in bough and root in root,— No more sky (for over-branching) At your head than at your foot,— Oh, the wood drew me within it, by a glamour past dispute. Few and broken paths showed through it, Where the sheep had tried to run,— Forced with snowy wool to strew it Round the thickets, when anon They with silly thorn-pricked noses bleated back into the sun. But my childish heart beat stronger Than those thickets dared to grow: I could pierce them! I could longer Travel on, methought, than so! Sheep for sheep-paths! braver children climb and creep where they would go. On a day, such pastime keeping, With a fawn’s heart debonair, Under-crawling, overleaping Thorns that prick and boughs that bear, I stood suddenly astonished—I was gladdened unaware! From the place I stood in, floated Back the covert dim and close; And the open ground was suited Carpet-smooth with grass and moss, And the blue-bell’s purple presence signed it worthily across. ’Twas a bower for garden fitter, Than for any woodland wide! Though a fresh and dewy glitter Struck it through, from side to side, Shaped and shaven was the freshness, as by garden-cunning plied. Rose-trees, either side the door, were Growing lithe and growing tall; Each one set a summer warder For the keeping of the hall,— With a red rose, and a white rose, leaning, nodding at the wall. As I entered—mosses hushing Stole all noises from my foot: And a round elastic cushion, Clasped within the linden’s root, Took me in a chair of silence, very rare and absolute. So, young muser, I sat listening To my Fancy’s wildest word— On a sudden, through the glistening Leaves around, a little stirred, Came a sound, a sense of music, which was rather felt than heard. Softly, finely, it inwound me— From the world it shut me in,— Like a fountain falling round me, Which with silver waters thin Clips a little marble Naiad, sitting smilingly within. Whence the music came, who knoweth? I know nothing. But indeed Pan or Faunus never bloweth So much sweetness from a reed Which has sucked the milk of waters, at the oldest river-head. Never lark the sun can waken With such sweetness! when the lark, The high planets overtaking In the half-evanished Dark, Casts his singing to their singing, like an arrow to the mark. Never nightingale so singeth— Oh! she leans on thorny tree, And her poet-soul she flingeth Over pain to victory! Yet she never sings such music,—or she sings it not to me! Never blackbirds, never thrushes, Nor small finches sing as sweet, When the sun strikes through the bushes To their crimson clinging feet, And their pretty eyes look sideways to the summer heavens complete. In a child-abstraction lifted, Straightway from the bower I passed; Foot and soul being dimly drifted Through the greenwood, till, at last, In the hill-top’s open sunshine, I all consciously was cast. And I said within me, laughing, I have found a bower to-day, A green lusus[52]—fashioned half in Chance, and half in Nature’s play— And a little bird sings nigh it, I will never more missay. Henceforth, I will be the fairy Of this bower, not built by one; I will go there, sad or merry, With each morning’s benison; And the bird shall be my harper in the dream-hall I have won. So I said. But the next morning, (—Child, look up into my face— ’Ware, O sceptic, of your scorning! This is truth in its pure grace;) The next morning, all had vanished, or my wandering missed the place. Day by day, with new desire, Toward my wood I ran in faith— Under leaf and over brier— Through the thickets, out of breath— Like the prince who rescued Beauty from the sleep as long as death. But his sword of mettle clashèd, And his arm smote strong, I ween; And her dreaming spirit flashèd Through her body’s fair white screen, And the light thereof might guide him up the cedarn alleys green. But for me, I saw no splendour— All my sword was my child-heart; And the wood refused surrender Of that bower it held apart, Safe as Œdipus’s grave-place, ’mid Colone’s olives swart. I have lost—oh many a pleasure— Many a hope, and many a power— Studious health and merry leisure— The first dew on the first flower! But the first of all my losses was the losing of the bower. All my losses did I tell you, Ye, perchance, would look away;— Ye would answer me, “Farewell! you Make sad company to-day; And your tears are falling faster than the bitter words you say.” For God placed me like a dial In the open ground, with power; And my heart had for its trial, All the sun and all the shower! And I suffered many losses; and my first was of the bower.

Ay, Oliver! I was but seven, and he was eleven; He looked at me pouting and rosy. I blushed where I stood. They had told us to play in the orchard (and I only seven! A small guest at the farm); but he said, “Oh, a girl was no good,” So he whistled and went, he went over the stile to the wood. It was sad, it was sorrowful! Only a girl—only seven! At home in the dark London smoke I had not found it out. The pear trees looked on in their white, and blue birds flashed about; And they too were angry as Oliver. Were they eleven? I thought so. Yes, every one else was eleven—eleven! So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my feet, And all the white orchard with fast-falling blossom was littered, And under and over the branches those little birds twittered, While hanging head downwards they scolded because I was seven. A pity. A very great pity. One should be eleven. But soon I was happy, the smell of the world was so sweet. And I saw a round hole in an apple-tree rosy and old. Then I knew! for I peeped, and I felt it was right they should scold! Eggs small and eggs many. For gladness I broke into laughter; And then some one else—oh, how softly! came after, came after With laughter—with laughter came after. So this was the country; clear dazzle of azure and shiver And whisper of leaves, and a humming all over the tall White branches, a humming of bees. And I came to the wall— A little low wall—and looked over, and there was the river, The lane that led on to the village, and then the sweet river. Clear-shining and slow, she had far far to go from her snow; But each rush gleamed a sword in the sunlight to guard her long flow, And she murmured methought, with a speech very soft, very low— “The ways will be long, but the days will be long,” quoth the river, “To me a long liver, long, long!” quoth the river—the river. I dreamed of the country that night, of the orchard, the sky, The voice that had mocked coming after and over and under. But at last—in a day or two namely—Eleven and I Were very fast friends, and to him I confided the wonder. He said that was Echo. “Was Echo a wise kind of bee That had learned how to laugh: could it laugh in one’s ear and then fly, And laugh again yonder?” “No; Echo”—he whispered it low— “Was a woman, they said, but a woman whom no one could see And no one could find; and he did not believe it, not he, But he could not get near for the river that held us asunder. Yet I that had money—a shilling, a whole silver shilling— We might cross if I thought I would spend it.” “Oh yes, I was willing”— And we ran hand in hand, we ran down to the ferry, the ferry, And we heard how she mocked at the folk with a voice clear and merry When they called for the ferry; but oh! she was very—was very Swift-footed. She spoke and was gone; and when Oliver cried, “Hie over! hie over! you man of the ferry—the ferry!” By the still water’s side she was heard far and wide—she replied, And she mocked in her voice sweet and merry “You man of the ferry, You man of—you man of the ferry!” “Hie over!” he shouted. The ferryman came at his calling, Across the clear reed-bordered river he ferried us fast;— Such a chase! Hand in hand, foot to foot, we ran on; it surpassed All measure her doubling—so close, then so far away falling, Then gone, and no more. Oh! to see her but once unaware, And the mouth that had mocked, but we might not (yet sure she was there!) Nor behold her wild eyes and her mystical countenance fair. We sought in the wood, and we found the wood-wren in her stead; In the field, and we found but the cuckoo that talked overhead; By the brook, and we found the reed-sparrow deep-nested, in brown— Not Echo, fair Echo! for Echo, sweet Echo! was flown. So we came to the place where the dead people wait till God call. The church was among them, grey moss over roof, over wall. Very silent, so low. And we stood on a green grassy mound And looked in at a window, for Echo, perhaps, in her round Might have come in to hide there. But no; every oak carven seat Was empty. We saw the great Bible—old, old, very old, And the parson’s great Prayer-book beside it; we heard the slow beat Of the pendulum swing in the tower; we saw the clear gold Of a sunbeam float down to the aisle and then waver and play On the low chancel step and the railing, and Oliver said, “Look, Katie! Look, Katie! when Lettice came here to be wed She stood where that sunbeam drops down, and all white was her gown; And she stepped upon flowers they strewed for her.” Then quoth small Seven, “Shall I wear a white gown and have flowers to walk upon ever?” All doubtful: “It takes a long time to grow up,” quoth Eleven; “You’re so little, you know, and the church is so old, it can never Last on till you’re tall.” And in whispers—because it was old, And holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half felt, but not told, Full of old parsons’ prayers, who were dead, of old days, of old folk Neither heard nor beheld, but about us, in whispers we spoke. Then we went from it softly, and ran hand in hand to the strand, While bleating of flocks and birds piping made sweeter the land, And Echo came back e’en as Oliver drew to the ferry, “O Katie!” “O Katie!” “Come on, then!” “Come on, then!” “For, see, The round sun, all red, lying low by the tree”—“by the tree.” “By the tree.” Ay, she mocked him again, with her voice sweet and merry: “Hie over!” “Hie over!” “You man of the ferry”—“the ferry.” “You man of the ferry—you man of—you man of—the ferry.” Ay, here—it was here that we woke her, the Echo of old; All life of that day seems an echo, and many times told. Shall I cross by the ferry to-morrow, and come in my white To that little old church? and will Oliver meet me anon? Will it all seem an echo from childhood passed over—passed on? Will the grave parson bless us? Hark, hark! in the dim failing light I hear her! As then the child’s voice clear and high, sweet and merry Now she mocks the man’s tone with “Hie over! Hie over the ferry!” “And Katie.” “And Katie.” “Art out with the glowworms to-night, My Katie?” “My Katie.” For gladness I break into laughter And tears. Then it all comes again as from far-away years; Again, some one else—Oh, how softly!—with laughter comes after, Comes after—with laughter comes after.

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the bird. ’Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale Down which she so often has tripp’d with her pail; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove’s, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colours have all passed away from her eyes!

Tell me where is Fancy bred, Or in the heart or in the head? How begot, how nourishèd? Reply, reply. It is engender’d in the eyes, With gazing fed; and Fancy dies In the cradle where it lies. Let us all ring Fancy’s knell: I’ll begin it,—Ding, dong, bell. Ding, dong, bell.