Chapter III

“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!”

THE SILVER KNIGHT

“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!”

SLUMBER SONG

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!

TRAVEL SONG

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

(ROBIN GOODFELLOW’S SONG)

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!

LADY ROBIN

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

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!”

HERMIT THRUSH

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!

POPLAR TREE

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!

THE IVORY PORTRAIT
AND
OTHER VERSES

THE IVORY PORTRAIT

I

This tender profile that you scan--
And oh, it breathes of beauty’s dower!--
A woman’s fingers well may span--
So small its space within her bower!--
The golden circlet that enfolds it.

Heart of a child, brain of a man
And many a perfect summer hour
Kept tryst for you, in loving plan
To consecrate this ivory flower,
As your dear thought to-day beholds it.

II

THE SCULPTOR

In the North, not the cruelly northernmost North,
But close to the voice of bright rills
And the beckoning hands of great hills,
A child was in gladness brought forth:
And he said to himself, as the heart of a man-child may say things,
“I take me this earth and these beautiful rocks for my playthings.

“I will pinch up the rocks that are nearest the sky,
And make of them rabbits and men
And maybe an angel, and then--
When the Sunday people pass by,
Some morning quite still, except for the organ playing,
The rabbits and men will hear what the angel is saying.”

And as others, the man kept a part of the word
Of the child. In brave bronze and fair stone
His hand ever wrought to make known
Whatsoever his heart had heard
Of beauty or truth; in homely or foreign places,
Interpreting ever the wonderful message of faces.

III

ON THE TERRACE

On the terrace, a marvelous flower uncloses;
It dances, it glances, it sways
In a thousand bright ways:
It reminds you of stars, yet of roses!
Come see!

On the terrace, a lovely new blossom is showing;
’Tis twining, and shining, and oh,
Did ever you hear or know
Of a blossom with golden hair growing?
Come see!

Were ever you told of a floweret, singing?
With chatter, and pattering feet,
And dowered with dimple sweet,
With laughter like faery-bells ringing?
Come see!