Chapter V

“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.”

THE WANDERER

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

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!

SOME ONE IS COMING WHO NEVER WILL COME

(SYLVIA’S WORDS)

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!”

THE DRYAD

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!

SEVEN SONNETS

IN HIS OWN IMAGE

O broad-brow’d thinker, thou hast oft unroll’d
The laws and prophets as of small avail,
And Genesis as but an old-wives’ tale
To check some grandchild, late grown overbold!
Yet when, in brimming epic, all is told
Of human hearts bleeding beneath their mail,
Of human hands pierc’d by the pitiless nail
Of sharpest sorrow: when thou shalt behold
How godlike is this Woman who doth grieve,
How kingly, too, this Man beneath the rod,
How high their glance who with stretch’d hands receive
The bitter cup, pouring upon the sod
The sweeter drink: shalt thou not then believe
That these were made in likeness of their God?

REVELATION

When unto that last jeweled Book I turn,
Groping, in my dark hour, for some bright creed
To save me, self from self,--alas, what heed
Have I, familiar with the gems that burn
In these my many tears, what heed to learn
Of jasper, sapphire, chrysoprase indeed?
Stones are they all! Not stones, but bread, my need!
A cup, a loaf, a staff--for these I yearn.
Yet hark! In that high tale the heralds bring
Of vial, vision, pomp of precious stone,
Paving the paths of Heaven, my spirit hears
Twin messages for human comforting:
“Her child was caught up unto God, His throne;”
“God from their eyes shall wipe away all tears.”

LIKE AS A FATHER

A strong star sweeps illimitable space;
One star of many, it shall fall and die,
And there is no bewildering in the sky,
No frown upon the firmament’s fair face:
One wave of many, this wide wave shall pace,
Ever irrevocable drawing nigh
Heart-breaking boom and doom, yet scarce a sigh
Shall stir the gray sea in his resting-place.
Not so man’s griefs, unnumbered though they be,
E’en as the stars and waves, and lovely leaves
That give glad holiday! Fear not, for He
Who counts the sparrows twittering from your eaves
May not unmoved His myriad mourners see:
Fear not, in each child’s grief a Father grieves!

COMPANIONSHIP AT TWILIGHT

O twilight, in thy magic robe of gray,
The gray that in its deeps doth all-enfold
Heart-chosen hues of sky and rose and gold!
Speed now the ritual of closing Day,
Nor welcome yet the radiant Night’s array,
But linger with me! Let mine eyes behold
A Shape more dear than morrows will have told,
Or dreams of yesteryear might ever say:
For with thy trailing garment I see pass
The glory of my lost love’s shining hair;
The singing silver of the fountain’s glass
Shows me once more the eyes I knew most fair;
And in the orchard, the mysterious grass
Whispers the waiting trees, some one is there.

THE CHANGED GARDEN

Let there be flowers where my love hath passed;
Nay, never a mournful blossom, nor the shade
Of any weeping tree! In yon glad glade,
Star-whispering pines hold her bright memory fast,
And echoes of her lovely laughter last:
Let no sad vine, distraught and disarrayed,
Cling sobbing to the garden gods for aid,
Nor brow of jocund Pan be overcast:
Rather in sunlit space a fountain rear,
Where white doves dwell, delighting in its dews;
Let spangled Columbine and Pansy here,
In turn with Rose and Lily, smile, sing, pray;
And passers-by shall pause awhile and muse,
“What maiden beautiful once came this way?”

ASCUTNEY

(THE NAME IS DERIVED FROM INDIAN WORDS MEANING THREE BROTHERS)

Fair guardian mount, beneath whose azure hold
Our large yet lyric landscape seek its ends!
Thou southward hill, in thee the far East blends
With West, since thou, our Fuji, dost enfold
In Orient outline, triple towers old,
Traditional of Indian deed that lends
For aye thy name, Three Brothers, or Three Friends;
And me these oft have gladdened and consoled!
But if, O dear and distant Brothers, ye
Have wrought me magic, standing there apart
In summer splendour and in winter stress,
How tell what gifts these other brothers three,
Far nearer kindred of my house and heart,
Have brought of comforting and loveliness!

TO-DAY

Leonardo--Luther--Lincoln--when we praise
A name like theirs, illumed on Time’s vast scroll,
We ponder; sighing, envious of their goal,
“Alas, Fate’s high occasion never stays!”
Let not the worshipper of vanished days
Forget, the Present dwells beside the whole
Of beauty’s truth; the Present still must roll
From many a tomb, the stone that hides God’s rays!
What angels’ task for men and women too,
Ere Life’s immured irradiance shall rise,
Ere all the soul’s dark chains be broken through,
And all her freedom gained, with a great price!--
Belovèd, while mine own brief part I do,
Would thou wert here to-day, in earthly guise!

LYRICS FROM SYLVIA’S MASQUE TO-MORROW LAND

CLOSED EYES

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

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!”

CALL O’ THE WEE PEOPLE

I

“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!”

II

“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!”