The Project Gutenberg eBook of Peacock Pie, a Book of Rhymes

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Title: Peacock Pie, a Book of Rhymes

Author: Walter De la Mare

Release date: February 1, 2003 [eBook #3753]
Most recently updated: January 8, 2021

Language: English


Produced by an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer.


A Book of Rhymes


Walter de la Mare

    'He told me his dreams. . .'
                               Isaac Watts

Table of Contents

       The Horseman
       Up and Down
       Mrs. Earth
       Alas, Alack
       Tired Tim
       The Huntsmen
       The Bandog
       I Can't Abear
       The Dunce
       Some One
       Bread and Cherries
       Old Shellover
       The Little Bird
       Cake and Sack
       The Ship of Rio
       Jim Jay
       Miss T.
       The Cupboard
       The Barber's
       Hide and Seek

       The Window
       Poor Henry
       Full Moon
       The Bookworm
       The Quartette
       The Lost Shoe
       The Truants

       Off the Ground
       The Thief at Robin's Castle

       A Widow's Weeds
       Mrs. MacQueen
       The Little Green Orchard
       Poor Miss 7
       Andy Battle
       The Old Soldier
       The Picture
       The Little Old Cupid
       King David
       The Old House

       All But Blind
       Nicholas Nye
       The Pigs and The Charcoal Burner
       Five Eyes
       Tit for Tat
       Summer Evening
       Earth Folk

       At the Keyhole
       The Old Stone House
       The Ruin
       The Ride-by-Nights
       Peak and Puke
       The Changeling
       The Mocking Fairy
       The Honey Robbers

       Nobody Knows
       Many a Mickle
       Will Ever?

       The Song of the Secret
       The Song of Soldiers
       The Bees' Song
       A Song of Enchantment
       The Song of Shadows
       The Song of the Mad prince
       The Song of Finis


  I heard a horseman
     Ride over the hill;
  The moon shone clear,
  The night was still;
  His helm was silver,
     And pale was he;
  And the horse he rode
     Was of ivory.


  Down the Hill of Ludgate,
     Up the Hill of Fleet,
  To and fro and East and West
     With people flows the street;
  Even the King of England
     On Temple Bar must beat
  For leave to ride to Ludgate
     Down the Hill of Fleet.


  Mrs. Earth makes silver black,
     Mrs. Earth makes iron red
  But Mrs. Earth can not stain gold,
     Nor ruby red.
  Mrs. earth the slenderest bone
     Whitens in her bosom cold,
  But Mrs. Earth can change my dreams
     No more than ruby or gold.
  Mrs. Earth and Mr. Sun
     Can tan my skin, and tire my toes,
  But all that I'm thinking of, ever shall think,
     Why, either knows.


  Ann, Ann!
     Come! Quick as you can!
  There's a fish that talks
     In the frying-pan.
  Out of the fat,
     As clear as glass,
  He put up his mouth
     And moaned 'Alas!'
  Oh, most mournful,
     'Alas, alack!'
  Then turned to his sizzling,
     And sank him back.


  Poor Tired Tim! It's sad for him.
  He lags the long bright morning through,
  Ever so tired of nothing to do;
  He moons and mopes the livelong day,
  Nothing to think about, nothing to say;
  Up to bed with his candle to creep,
  Too tired to yawn, too tired to sleep:
  Poor Tired Tim! It's sad for him.


  Jemima is my name,
     But oh, I have another;
  My father always calls me Meg,
     And so do Bob and mother;
  Only my sister, jealous of
     The strands of my bright hair,
  'Jemima - Mima - Mima!'
     Calls, mocking, up the stair.


  Three jolly gentlemen,
     In coats of red,
  Rode their horses
     Up to bed.

  Three jolly gentlemen
     Snored till morn,
  Their horses champing
     The golden corn.

  Three jolly gentlemen,
     At break of day,
  Came clitter-clatter down the stairs
  And galloped away.


  Has anybody seen my Mopser? —
     A comely dog is he,
  With hair of the colour of a Charles the Fifth,
     And teeth like ships at sea,
  His tail it curls straight upwards,
     His ears stand two abreast,
  And he answers to the simple name of Mopser
     When civilly addressed.


  I can't abear a Butcher,
     I can't abide his meat,
  The ugliest shop of all is his,
     The ugliest in the street;
  Bakers' are warm, cobblers' dark,
     Chemists' burn watery lights;
  But oh, the sawdust butcher's shop,
     That ugliest of sights!


  Why does he still keep ticking?
     Why does his round white face
  Stare at me over the books and ink,
     And mock at my disgrace?
  Why does that thrush call, 'Dunce, dunce, dunce!'?
     Why does that bluebottle buzz?
  Why does the sun so silent shine? —
     And what do I care if it does?


  Clapping her platter stood plump Bess,
     And all across the green
  Came scampering in, on wing and claw,
     Chicken fat and lean:
  Dorking, Spaniard, Cochin China,
     Bantams sleek and small,
  Like feathers blown in a great wind,
     They came at Bessie's call.


  Some one came knocking
     At my wee, small door;
  Some one came knocking,
     I'm sure - sure - sure;
  I listened, I opened,
     I looked to left and right,
  But naught there was a-stirring
     In the still dark night;
  Only the busy beetle
     Tap-tapping in the wall,
  Only from the forest
     The screech-owl's call,
  Only the cricket whistling
     While the dewdrops fall,
  So I know not who came knocking,
  At all, at all, at all.


  'Cherries, ripe cherries!'
     The old woman cried,
  In her snowy white apron,
     And basket beside;
  And the little boys came,
     Eyes shining, cheeks red,
  To buy a bag of cherries,
  To eat with their bread.


  'Come!' said Old Shellover.
  'What?' says Creep.
  'The horny old Gardener's fast asleep;
  The fat cock Thrush
  To his nest has gone;
  And the dew shines bright
  In the rising Moon;
  Old Sallie Worm from her hole doth peep:
  Come!' said Old Shellover.
  'Aye!' said Creep.


  Hapless, hapless, I must be
  All the hours of life I see,
  Since my foolish nurse did once
  Bed me on her leggen bones;
  Since my mother did not weel
  To snip my nails with blades of steel.
  Had they laid me on a pillow
  In a cot of water willow,
  Had they bitten finger and thumb,
  Not to such ill hap I had come.


  My dear Daddie bought a mansion
     For to bring my Mammie to,
  In a hat with a long feather,
     And a trailing gown of blue;
  And a company of fiddlers
     And a rout of maids and men
  Danced the clock round to the morning,
     In a gay house-warming then.
  And when all the guests were gone, and
     All was still as still can be,
  In from the dark ivy hopped a
     Wee small bird: and that was Me.


  Old King Caraway
     Supped on cake,
  And a cup of sack
     His thirst to slake;
  Bird in arras
     And hound in hall
  Watched very softly
     Or not at all;
  Fire in the middle,
     Stone all round
  Changed not, heeded not,
     Made no sound;
  All by himself
     At the Table High
  He'd nibble and sip
     While his dreams slipped by;
  And when he had finished,
     He'd nod and say,
  'Cake and sack
     For King Caraway!'


  There was a ship of Rio
     Sailed out into the blue,
  And nine and ninety monkeys
     Were all her jovial crew.
  From bo'sun to the cabin boy,
     From quarter to caboose,
  There weren't a stitch of calico
     To breech 'em - tight or loose;
  From spar to deck, from deck to keel,
     From barnacle to shroud,
  There weren't one pair of reach-me-downs
     To all that jabbering crowd.
  But wasn't it a gladsome sight,
     When roared the deep sea gales,
  To see them reef her fore and aft
     A-swinging by their tails!
  Oh, wasn't it a gladsome sight,
     When glassy calm did come,
  To see them squatting tailor-wise
     Around a keg of rum!
  Oh, wasn't it a gladsome sight,
     When in she sailed to land,
  To see them all a-scampering skip
     For nuts across the sand!


  Old Tillie Turveycombe
  Sat to sew,
  Just where a patch of fern did grow;
  There, as she yawned,
  And yawn wide did she,
  Floated some seed
  Down her gull-e-t;
  And look you once,
  And look you twice,
  Poor old Tillie
  Was gone in a trice.
  But oh, when the wind
  Do a-moaning come,
  'Tis poor old Tillie
  Sick for home;
  And oh, when a voice
  In the mist do sigh,
  Old Tillie Turveycombe's
  Floating by.


  Do diddle di do,
     Poor Jim Jay
  Got stuck fast
     In Yesterday.
  Squinting he was,
     On Cross-legs bent,
  Never heeding
     The wind was spent.
  Round veered the weathercock,
     The sun drew in -
  And stuck was Jim
     Like a rusty pin…
  We pulled and we pulled
     From seven till twelve,
  Jim, too frightened
     To help himself.
  But all in vain.
     The clock struck one,
  And there was Jim
     A little bit gone.
  At half-past five
     You scarce could see
  A glimpse of his flapping
  And when came noon,
     And we climbed sky-high,
  Jim was a speck
     Slip - slipping by.
  Come to-morrow,
     The neighbours say,
  He'll be past crying for;
     Poor Jim Jay.


  It's a very odd thing ——-
     As odd as can be —-
  That whatever Miss T. eats
     Turns into Miss T.;
  Porridge and apples,
     Mince, muffins and mutton,
  Jam, junket, jumbles ——
     Not a rap, not a button
  It matters; the moment
     They're out of her plate,
  Though shared by Miss Butcher
     And sour Mr. Bate;
  Tiny and cheerful,
     And neat as can be,
  Whatever Miss T. eats
     Turns into Miss T.


  I know a little cupboard,
  With a teeny tiny key,
  And there's a jar of Lollypops
        For me, me, me.

  It has a little shelf, my dear,
  As dark as dark can be,
  And there's a dish of Banbury Cakes
        For me, me, me.

  I have a small fat grandmamma,
  With a very slippery knee,
  And she's the Keeper of the Cupboard
        With the key, key, key.

  And I'm very good, my dear,
  As good as good can be,
  There's Branbury Cakes, and Lollypops
        For me, me, me.


  Gold locks, and black locks,
     Red locks and brown,
  Topknot to love-curl
     The hair wisps down;
  Straight above the clear eyes,
     Rounded round the ears,
  Snip-snap and snick-a-snick,
     Clash the Barber's shears;
  Us, in the looking-glass,
     Footsteps in the street,
  Over, under, to and fro,
     The lean blades meet;
  Bay Rum or Bear's Grease,
     A silver groat to pay -
  Then out a-shin-shan-shining
     In the bright, blue day.


  Hide and seek, says the Wind,
     In the shade of the woods;
  Hide and seek, says the Moon,
     To the hazel buds;
  Hide and seek, says the Cloud,
     Star on to star;
  Hide and seek, says the Wave,
     At the harbour bar;
  Hide and seek, say I,
     To myself, and step
  Out of the dream of Wake
     Into the dream of Sleep.



  Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty
     A hundred years ago,
  All through the night with lantern bright
     The Watch trudged to and fro,
  And little boys tucked snug abed
     Would wake from dreams to hear -
  'Two o' the morning by the clock,
     And the stars a-shining clear!'
  Or, when across the chimney-tops
     Screamed shrill a North-East gale,
  A faint and shaken voice would shout,
     'Three! And a storm of hail!'


  Behind the blinds I sit and watch
  The people passing - passing by;
  And not a single one can see
     My tiny watching eye.

  They cannot see my little room,
  All yellowed with the shaded sun;
  They do not even know I'm here;
     Nor'll guess when I am gone.


  Thick in its glass
     The physic stands,
  Poor Henry lifts
     Distracted hands;
  His round cheek wans
     In the candlelight,
  To smell that smell!
     To see that sight!

  Finger and thumb
     Clinch his small nose,
  A gurgle, a gasp,
     And down it goes;
  Scowls Henry now;
     But mark that cheek,
  Sleek with the bloom
     Of health next week!


  One night as Dick lay half asleep,
     Into his drowsy eyes
  A great still light begins to creep
     From out the silent skies.
  It was lovely moon's, for when
     He raised his dreamy head,
  Her surge of silver filled the pane
     And streamed across his bed.
  So, for a while, each gazed at each -
     Dick and the solemn moon -
  Till, climbing slowly on her way,
     She vanished, and was gone.


  'I'm tired - Oh, tired of books,' said Jack,
     'I long for meadows green,
  And woods, where shadowy violets
     Nod their cool leaves between;
  I long to see the ploughman stride
     His darkening acres o'er,
  To hear the hoarse sea-waters drive
     Their billows 'gainst the shore;
  I long to watch the sea-mew wheel
     Back to her rock-perched mate;
  Or, where the breathing cows are housed,
     Lean dreaming o'er the gate.
  Something has gone, and ink and print
     Will never bring it back;
  I long for the green fields again,
     I'm tired of books,' said Jack.


  Tom sang for joy and Ned sang for joy and old Sam sang for joy;
  All we four boys piped up loud, just like one boy;
  And the ladies that sate with the Squire - their cheeks were all wet,
  For the noise of the voice of us boys, when we sang our Quartette.

  Tom he piped low and Ned he piped low and old Sam he piped low;
  Into a sorrowful fall did our music flow;
  And the ladies that sate with the Squire vowed they'd never forget
  How the eyes of them cried for delight, when we sang our Quartette.


  Sitting under the mistletoe
  (Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),
  One last candle burning low,
  All the sleepy dancers gone,
  Just one candle burning on,
  Shadows lurking everywhere:
  Some one came, and kissed me there.

  Tired I was; my head would go
  Nodding under the mistletoe
  (Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),
  No footsteps came, no voice, but only,
  Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely,
  Stooped in the still and shadowy air
  Lips unseen - and kissed me there.


  Poor little Lucy
     By some mischance,
  Lost her shoe
     As she did dance -
  'Twas not on the stairs,
     Not in the hall;
  Not where they sat
     At supper at all.
  She looked in the garden,
     But there it was not;
  Henhouse, or kennel,
     Or high dovecote.
  Dairy and meadow,
     And wild woods through
  Showed not a trace
     Of Lucy's shoe.
  Bird nor bunny
     Nor glimmering moon
  Breathed a whisper
     Of where 'twas gone.
  It was cried and cried,
     Oyez and Oyez!
  In French, Dutch, Latin,
     And Portuguese.
  Ships the dark seas
     Went plunging through,
  But none brought news
     Of Lucy's shoe;
  And still she patters
     In silk and leather,
  O'er snow, sand, shingle,
     In every weather;
  Spain, and Africa,
  Java, China,
     And lamped Japan;
  Plain and desert,
     She hops-hops through,
     To gold Peru;
  Mountain and forest,
     And river too,
  All the world over
     For her lost shoe.


  Ere my heart beats too coldly and faintly
     To remember sad things, yet be gay,
  I would sing a brief song of the world's little children
     Magic hath stolen away.

  The primroses scattered by April,
     The stars of the wide Milky Way,
  Cannot outnumber the hosts of the children
     Magic hath stolen away.

  The buttercup green of the meadows,
     The snow of the blossoming may,
  Lovelier are not than the legions of children
     Magic hath stolen away.

  The waves tossing surf in the moonbeam,
     The albatross lone on the spray,
  Alone know the tears wept in vain for the children
     Magic hath stolen away.

  In vain: for at hush of the evening,
     When the stars twinkle into the grey,
  Seems to echo the far-away calling of children
     Magic hath stolen away.



  There was an old woman
     Went blackberry picking
  Along the hedges
     From Weep to Wicking. -
  Half a pottle-
     No more she had got,
  When out steps a Fairy
     From her green grot;
  And says, 'Well, Jill,
     Would 'ee pick ee mo?'
  And Jill, she curtseys,
     And looks just so.
  Be off,' says the Fairy,
     'As quick as you can,
  Over the meadows
     To the little green lane
  That dips to the hayfields
     Of Farmer Grimes:
  I've berried those hedges
     A score of times;
  Bushel on bushel
     I'll promise'ee, Jill,
  This side of supper
     If'ee pick with a will.'
  She glints very bright,
     And speaks her fair;
  Then lo, and behold!
     She had faded in air.

  Be sure Old Goodie
     She trots betimes
  Over the meadows
     To Farmer Grimes.
  And never was queen
     With jewelry rich
  As those same hedges
     From twig to ditch;
  Like Dutchmen's coffers,
     Fruit, thorn, and flower -
  They shone like William
     And Mary's bower.
  And be sure Old Goodie
     Went back to Weep,
  So tired with her basket
     She scarce could creep.

  When she comes in the dusk
     To her cottage door,
  There's Towser wagging
     As never before,
  To see his Missus
     So glad to be
  Come from her fruit-picking
     Back to he.
  As soon as next morning
     Dawn was grey,
  The pot on the hob
     Was simmering away;
  And all in a stew
     And a hugger-mugger
  Towser and Jill
     A-boiling of sugar,
  And the dark clear fruit
     That from Faerie came,
  For syrup and jelly
     And blackberry jam.

  Twelve jolly gallipots
     Jill put by;
  And one little teeny one,
     One inch high;
  And that she's hidden
     A good thumb deep,
  Half way over
     From Wicking to Weep.


  Three jolly Farmers
  Once bet a pound
  Each dance the others would
  Off the ground.
  Out of their coats
  They slipped right soon,
  And neat and nicesome,
  Put each his shoon.
  One - Two - Three! -
  And away they go,
  Not too fast,
  And not too slow;
  Out from the elm-tree's
  Noonday shadow,
  Into the sun
  And across the meadow.
  Past the schoolroom,
  With knees well bent
  Fingers a-flicking,
  They dancing went.
  Up sides and over,
  And round and round,
  They crossed click-clacking,
  The Parish bound,
  By Tupman's meadow
  They did their mile,
  On a three-barred stile.
  Then straight through Whipham,
  Downhill to Week,
  Footing it lightsome,
  But not too quick,
  Up fields to Watchet,
  And on through Wye,
  Till seven fine churches
  They'd seen skip by -
  Seven fine churches,
  And five old mills,
  Farms in the valley,
  And sheep on the hills;
  Old Man's Acre
  And Dead Man's Pool
  All left behind,
  As they danced through Wool.
  And Wool gone by,
  Like tops that seem
  To spin in sleep
  They danced in dream;
  Withy - Wellover -
  Like an old clock
  Their heels did go.
  A league and a league
  And a league they went,
  And not one weary,
  And not one spent.
  And Io, and behold!
  Past Willow-cum-Leigh
  Stretched with its waters
  The great green sea.
  Says Farmer Bates,
  I puffs and I blows,
  What's under the water,
  Why, no man knows!'
  Says Farmer Giles,
  'My wind comes weak,
  And a good man drownded
  Is far to seek.'
  But Farmer Turvey,
  On twirling toes
  Up's with his gaiters,
  And in he goes:
  Down where the mermaids
  Pluck and play
  On their twangling harps
  In a sea-green day;
  Down where the mermaids,
  Finned and fair,
  Sleek with their combs
  Their yellow hair….
  Bates and Giles-
  On the shingle sat,
  Gazing at Turvey's
  Floating hat.
  But never a ripple
  Nor bubble told
  Where he was supping
  Off plates of gold.
  Never an echo
  Rilled through the sea
  Of the feasting and dancing
  And minstrelsy.
  They called-called-called:
  Came no reply:
  Nought but the ripples'
  Sandy sigh.
  Then glum and silent
  They sat instead,
  Vacantly brooding
  On home and bed,
  Till both together
  Stood up and said.-
  'Us knows not, dreams not,
  Where you be,
  Turvey, unless
  In the deep blue sea;
  But axcusing silver-
  And it comes most willing -
  Here's us two paying
  Our forty shilling;
  For it's sartin sure, Turvey,
  Safe and sound,
  You danced us square, Turvey,
  Off the ground!'


  There came a Thief one night to Robin's Castle,
  He climbed up into a Tree;
  And sitting with his head among the branches,
  A wondrous Sight did see.

  For there was Robin supping at his table,
  With Candles of pure Wax,
  His Dame and his two beauteous little Children,
  With Velvet on their backs.

  Platters for each there were shin-shining,
  Of Silver many a pound,
  And all of beaten Gold, three brimming Goblets,
  Standing the table round.

  The smell that rose up richly from the Baked Meats
  Came thinning amid the boughs,
  And much that greedy Thief who snuffed the night air-
  His Hunger did arouse.

  He watched them eating, drinking, laughing, talking,
  Busy with finger and spoon,
  While three most cunning Fiddlers, clad in crimson,
  Played them a supper-tune.

  And he waited in the tree-top like a Starling,
  Till the Moon was gotten low;
  When all the windows in the walls were darkened,
  He softly in did go.

  There Robin and his Dame in bed were sleeping,
  And his Children young and fair;
  Only Robin's Hounds from their warm kennels
  Yelped as he climbed the stair.

  All, all were sleeping, page and fiddler,
  Cook, scullion, free from care;
  Only Robin's Stallions from their stables
  Neighed as he climbed the stair.

  A wee wan light the Moon did shed him,
  Hanging above the sea,
  And he counted into his bag (of beaten Silver)
  Platters thirty-three.

  Of Spoons three score; of jolly golden Goblets
  He stowed in four save one,
  And six fine three-branched Cupid Candlesticks,
  Before his work was done.

  Nine bulging bags of Money in a cupboard,
  Two Snuffers, and a Dish
  He found, the last all studded with great Garnets
  And shapen like a Fish.

  Then tiptoe up he stole into a Chamber,
  Where on Tasselled Pillows lay
  Robin and his Daule in dreaming slumbers
  Tired with the summer's day.

  That Thief he mimbled round him in the gloaming,
  Their treasure for to spy,
  Combs, Brooches, Chains, and, Rings, and Pins and Buckles
  All higgledy, Piggle-dy.

  A Watch shaped in the shape of a flat Apple
  In purest crystal set
  He lifted from the hook where it was ticking
  And crammed in his Pochette.

  He heaped the pretty Baubles on the table,
  Trinketsi Knick-knackerie,
  Pearls, Diamonds, Sapphires, Topazes, and Opals-
  All in his bag put he.

  And there in night's pale Gloom was Robin dreaming
  He was hunting the mountain Bear,
  While his Dame in peaceful slumber in no wise heeded
  A greedy Thief was there.

  And that ravenous Thief he climbed up even higher,
  Till into a chamber small
  He crept where lay poor Robin's beauteous Children,
  Lovelier in sleep withal.

  Oh, fairer was their Hair than Gold of Goblet,
  'Yond Silver their Cheeks did shine,
  And their little hands that lay upon the linen
  Made that Thief's hard heart to pine.

  But though a moment there his hard heart faltered,
  Eftsoones be took them twain,
  And slipped them into his Bag with all his Plunder,
  And soft stole down again.

  Spoon, Platter, Goblet, Ducats, Dishes, Trinkets,
  And those two Children dear,
  A-quaking in the clinking and the clanking,
  And half bemused with fear,

  He carried down the stairs into the Courtyard,
  But there he made no stay,
  He just tied up his Garters, took a deep breath,
  And ran like the wind away.

  Past Forest, River, Mountain, River, Forest-
  He coursed the whole night through,
  Till morning found him come into a Country,
  Where none his bad face knew.

  Past Mountain, River, Forest, River, Mountain-
  That Thief's lean shanks sped on,
  Till Evening found him knocking at a Dark House,
  His breath now well-nigh gone.

  There came a little maid and asked his Business;
  A Cobbler dwelt within;
  And though she much misliked the Bag he carried,
  She led the Bad Man in.

  He bargained with the Cobbler for a lodging
  And soft laid down his Sack-
  In the Dead of Night, with none to spy or listen-
  From off his weary back.

  And he taught the little Chicks to call him Father,
  And he sold his stolen Pelf,
  And bought a Palace, Horses, Slaves, and Peacocks
  To ease his wicked self.

  And though the Children never really loved him,
  He was rich past all belief;
  While Robin and his Dame o'er Delf and Pewter
  Spent all their Days in Grief.



  A poor old Widow in her weeds
  Sowed her garden with wild-flower seeds;
  Not too shallow, and not too deep,
  And down came April — drip — drip — drip.
  Up shone May, like gold, and soon
  Green as an arbour grew leafy June.
  And now all summer she sits and sews
  Where willow herb, comfrey, bugloss blows,
  Teasle and pansy, meadowsweet,
  Campion, toadflax, and rough hawksbit;
  Brown bee orchis, and Peals of Bells;
  Clover, burnet, and thyme she smells;
  Like Oberon's meadows her garden is
  Drowsy from dawn to dusk with bees.
  Weeps she never, but sometimes sighs,
  And peeps at her garden with bright brown eyes;
  And all she has is all she needs —
  A poor Old Widow in her weeds.


  Black as a chimney is his face,
     And ivory white his teeth,
  And in his brass-bound cart he rides,
     The chestnut blooms beneath.

  'Sooeep, Sooeep!' he cries, and brightly peers
     This way and that, to see
  With his two light-blue shining eyes
     What custom there may be.

  And once inside the house, he'll squat,
     And drive his rods on high,
  Till twirls his sudden sooty brush
     Against the morning sky.

  Then, 'mid his bulging bags of soot,
     With half the world asleep,
  His small cart wheels him off again,
     Still hoarsely bawling, 'Sooeep!'


  With glass like a bull's-eye,
  And shutters of green,
  Down on the cobbles
  Lives Mrs. MacQueen,

  At six she rises;
  At nine you see
  Her candle shine out
  In the linden tree:

  And at half-past nine
  Not a sound is nigh
  But the bright moon's creeping
  Across the sky;

  Or a far dog baying;
  Or a twittering bird
  In its drowsy nest,
  In the darkness stirred;

  Or like the roar
  Of a distant sea
  A long-drawn S-s-sh
  In the linden tree.


  Some one is always sitting there,
           In the little green orchard;
     Even when the sun is high
     In noon's unclouded sky,
     And faintly droning goes
     The bee from rose to rose,
  Some one in shadow is sitting there
           In the little green orchard.

  Yes, when the twilight's falling softly
           In the little green orchard;
     When the grey dew distills
     And every flower-cup fills;
     When the last blackbird says,
     'What - what!' and goes her way - ssh!
  I have heard voices calling softly
           In the little green orchard

  Not that I am afraid of being there,
          In the little green orchard;
     Why, when the moon's been bright,
     Shedding her lonesome light,
     And moths like ghosties come,
     And the horned snail leaves home:
  I've sat there, whispering and listening there,
           In the little green orchard.

  Only it's strange to be feeling there,
           In the little green orchard;
     Whether you paint or draw,
     Dig, hammer, chop or saw;
     When you are most alone,
     All but the silence gone…
  Some one is watching and waiting there,
           In the little green orchard.


  Lone and alone she lies,
     Poor Miss 7,
  Five steep flights from the earth,
     And one from heaven;
  Dark hair and dark brown eyes, -
  Not to be sad she tries,
  Still - still it's lonely lies
     Poor Miss 7.

  One day-long watch hath she,
     Poor Miss 7,
  Not in some orchard sweet
     In April Devon -
  Just four blank walls to see,
  And dark come shadowily,
  No moon, no stars, ah me!
     Poor Miss 7.

  And then to wake again,
     Poor Miss 7,
  To the cold night, to have
     Sour physic given;
  Out of some dream of pain,
  Then strive long hours in vain
  Deep dreamless sleep to gain:
     Poor Miss 7.

  Yet memory softly sings
     Poor Miss 7
  Songs full of love and peace
     And gladness even;
  Clear flowers and tiny wings,
  All tender, lovely things,
  Hope to her bosom brings -
     Happy Miss 7.


  When Sam goes back in memory,
  It is to where the sea
  Breaks on the shingle, emerald-green,
  In white foam, endlessly;
  He says - with small brown eye on mine-
  'I used to keep awake,
  And lean from my window in the moon,
  Watching those billows break.
  And half a million tiny hands,
  And eyes, like sparks of frost,
  Would dance and come tumbling into the moon,
  On every breaker tossed.
  And all across from star to star,
  I've seen the watery sea,
  With not a single ship in sight,
  Just ocean there, and me;
  And heard my father snore. And once,
  As sure as I'm alive,
  Out of those wallowing, moon-flecked waves
  I saw a mermaid dive;
  Head and shoulders above the wave,
  Plain as I now see you,
  Combing her hair, now back, now front,
  Her two eyes peeping through;
  Calling me, 'Sam!' -quietlike- 'Sam!'…
  But me …. I never went,
  Making believe I kind of thought
  'Twas some one else she meant….
   Wonderful lovely there she sat,
  Singing the night away,
  All in the solitudinous sea
  Of that there lonely bay.

  P'raps,' and he'd smooth his hairless mouth,
  'P'raps, if 'twere now, my son,
  Praps, if I heard a voice say, 'Sam!'…
  Morning would find we gone.'


  Once and there was a young sailor, yeo ho!
  And he sailed out over the say
  For the isles where pink coral and palm branches blow,
  And the fire-flies turn night into day,
  Yeo ho!
  And the fire-flies turn night into day.

  But the Dolphin went down in a tempest, yeo ho!
  And with three forsook sailors ashore,
  The portingales took him wh'ere sugar-canes grow,
  Their slave for to be evermore,
  Yeo ho!
  Their slave for to be evermore.

  With his musket for mother and brother, yeo ho!
   He warred with the Cannibals drear,
  in forests where panthers pad soft to and fro,
  And the Pongo shakes noonday with fear,
  Yeo ho!
  And the Pongo shakes noonday with fear.

  Now lean with long travail, all wasted with woe,
  With a monkey for messmate and friend,
  He sits 'neath the Cross in the cankering snow,
  And waites for his sorrowful end,
  Yeo ho!
  And waits for his sorrowful end.


  There came an Old Soldier to my door,
  Asked a crust, and asked no more;
  The wars had thinned him very bare,
  Fighting and marching everywhere,
  With a Fol rol dol rol di do.

  With nose stuck out, and cheek sunk in,
  A bristling beard upon his chin -
  Powder and bullets and wounds and drums
  Had come to that Soldier as suchlike comes -
  With a Fol rol dol rol di do.

  'Twas sweet and fresh with buds of May,
  Flowers springing from every spray;
  And when he had supped the Old Soldier trolled
  The song of youth that never grows old,
  Called Fol rol dol rol di do.

  Most of him rags, and all of him lean,
  And the belt round his belly drawn tightsome in
  He lifted his peaked old grizzled head,
  And these were the very same words he said-
  A Fol-rol-dol-rol-di-do.


     Here is a sea-legged sailor,
     Come to this tottering Inn,
  Just when the bronze on its signboard is fading,
     And the black shades of evening begin.

     With his head on thick paws sleeps a sheep-dog,
     There stoops the Shepherd, and see,
  All follow-my-leader the ducks waddle homeward,
     Under the sycamore tree.

     Very brown is the face of the Sailor,
     His bundle is crimson, and green
  Are the thick leafy boughs that hang dense o'er the Tavern,
     And blue the far meadows between.

     But the Crust, Ale and Cheese of the Sailor,
     His Mug and his platter of Delf,
  And the crescent to light home the Shepherd and Sheep-dog
     The painter has kept to himself.


  'Twas a very small garden;
  The paths were of stone,
  Scattered with leaves,
  With moss overgrown;
  And a little old Cupid
  Stood under a tree,
  With a small broken bow
  He stood aiming at me.

  The dog-rose in briars
  Hung over the weeds,
  The air was aflock
  With the floating of seed,
  And a little old Cupid
  Stood under a tree,
  With a small broken bow
  He stood aiming at me.

  The dovecote was tumbling,
  The fountain dry,
  A wind in the orchard
  Went whispering by;
  And a little old Cupid
  Stood under a tree,
  With a small broken bow
  He stood aiming at me.


  King David was a sorrowful man:
  No cause for his sorrow had he;
  And he called for the music of a hundred harps,
  To ease his melancholy.

  They played till they all fell silent:
  Played-and play sweet did they;
  But the sorrow that haunted the heart of King David
  They could not charm away.

  He rose; and in his garden
  Walked by the moon alone,
  A nightingale hidden in a cypress-tree
  Jargoned on and on.

  King David lifted his sad eyes
  Into the dark-boughed tree-
  ''Tell me, thou little bird that singest,
  Who taught my grief to thee?'

  But the bird in no wise heeded
  And the king in the cool of the moon
  Hearkened to the nightingale's sorrowfulness,
  Till all his own was gone.


  A very, very old house I know-
  And ever so many people go,
  Past the small lodge, forlorn and still,
  Under the heavy branches, till
  Comes the blank wall, and there's the door.
  Go in they do; come out no more.
  No voice says aught; no spark of light
  Across that threshold cheers the sight;
  Only the evening star on high
  Less lonely makes a lonely sky,
  As, one by one, the people go
  Into that very old house I know.



  Low on his fours the Lion
  Treads with the surly Bear',
  But Men straight upward from the dust
  Walk with their heads in air;
  The free sweet winds of heaven,
  The sunlight from on high
  Beat on their clear bright cheeks and brows
  As they go striding by;
  The doors of all their houses
  They arch so they may go,
  Uplifted o'er the four-foot beasts,
  Unstooping, to and fro.


  All but blind
     In his cambered hole
  Gropes for worms
     The four-clawed Mole.

  All but blind
     In the evening sky
  The hooded Bat
     Twirls softly by.

  All but blind
     In the burning day
  The Barn-Owl blunders
     On her way.

  And blind as are
     These three to me,
  So blind to someone
     I must be.


  Thistle and darnell and dock grew there,
     And a bush, in the corner, of may,
  On the orchard wall I used to sprawl
     In the blazing heat of the day;
  Half asleep and half awake,
     While the birds went twittering by,
  And nobody there my lone to share
     But Nicholas Nye.

  Nicholas Nye was lean and gray,
     Lame of leg and old,
  More than a score of donkey's years
     He had been since he was foaled;
  He munched the thistles, purple and spiked,
     Would sometimes stoop and sigh,
  And turn to his head, as if he said,
     "Poor Nicholas Nye!"

  Alone with his shadow he'd drowse in the meadow,
     Lazily swinging his tail,
  At break of day he used to bray,—
     Not much too hearty and hale;
  But a wonderful gumption was under his skin,
     And a clean calm light in his eye,
  And once in a while; he'd smile:—
     Would Nicholas Nye.

  Seem to be smiling at me, he would,
     From his bush in the corner, of may,—
  Bony and ownerless, widowed and worn,
     Knobble-kneed, lonely and gray;
  And over the grass would seem to pass
     'Neath the deep dark blue of the sky,
  Something much better than words between me
     And Nicholas Nye.

  But dusk would come in the apple boughs,
     The green of the glow-worm shine,
  The birds in nest would crouch to rest,
     And home I'd trudge to mine;
  And there, in the moonlight, dark with dew,
     Asking not wherefore nor why,
  Would brood like a ghost, and as still as a post,
     Old Nicholas Nye.


  The old Pig said to the little pigs,
     'In the forest is truffles and mast,
  Follow me then, all ye little pigs,
     Follow me fast!'

  The Charcoal-burner sat in the shade
     With his chin on his thumb,
  And saw the big Pig and the little pigs,
     Chuffling come.

  He watched 'neath a green and giant bough,
     And the pigs in the ground
  Made a wonderful grizzling and gruzzling
     And a greedy sound.

  And when, full-fed they were gone, and Night
     Walked her starry ways,
  He stared with his cheeks in his hands
     At his sullen blaze.


  In Hans' old Mill his three black cats
  Watch the bins for the thieving rats.
  Whisker and claw, they crouch in the night,
  Their five eyes smouldering green and bright:
  Squeaks from the flour sacks, squeaks from where
  The cold wind stirs on the empty stair,
  Squeaking and scampering, everywhere.
  Then down they pounce, now in, now out,
  At whisking tail, and sniffing snout;
  While lean old Hans he snores away
  Till peep of light at break of day;
  Then up he climbs to his creaking mill,
  Out come his cats all grey with meal —
  Jekkel, and Jessup, and one-eyed Jill.


  Beside the blaze of forty fires
     Giant Grim doth sit,
  Roasting a thick-woolled mountain sheep
     Upon an iron spit.
  Above him wheels the winter sky,
     Beneath him, fathoms deep,
  Lies hidden in the valley mists
     A village fast asleep —-
  Save for one restive hungry dog
     That, snuffing towards the height,
  Smells Grim's broiled supper-meat, and spies
  His watch-fire twinkling bright.


  Have you been catching of fish, Tom Noddy?
     Have you snared a weeping hare?
  Have you whistled, 'No Nunny,'and gunned a poor
     Or a blinded bird of the air?

  Have you trod like a murderer through the green
     Through the dewy deep dingles and glooms,
  While every small creature screamed shrill to Dame
     'He comes —and he comes!'?

  Wonder I very much do, Tom Noddy,
     If ever, when you are a-roam,
  An Ogre from space will stoop a lean face
     And lug you home:

  Lug you home over his fence, Tom Noddy,
     Of thorn-sticks nine yards high,
  With your bent knees strung round his old iron gun
     And your head dan-dangling by:

  And hang you up stiff on a hook, Tom Noddy,
     From a stone-cold pantry shelf,
  Whence your eyes will glare in an empty stare,
     Till you're cooked yourself!


  The sandy cat by the Farmer's chair
  Mews at his knee for dainty fare;
  Old Rover in his moss-greened house
  Mumbles a bone, and barks at a mouse
  In the dewy fields the cattle lie
  Chewing the cud 'neath a fading sky
  Dobbin at manger pulls his hay:
  Gone is another summer's day.


  The cat she walks on padded claws,
  The wolf on the hills lays stealthy paws,
  Feathered birds in the rain-sweet sky
  At their ease in the air, flit low, flit high.

  The oak's blind, tender roots pierce deep,
  His green crest towers, dimmed in sleep,
  Under the stars whose thrones are set
  Where never prince hath journeyed yet.



  'Grill me some bones,' said the Cobbler,
     'Some bones, my pretty Sue;
  I'm tired of my lonesome with heels and soles,
  Springsides and uppers too;
  A mouse in the wainscot is nibbling;
  A wind in the keyhole drones;
  And a sheet webbed over my candle, Susie, —-
     Grill me some bones!'

  'Grill me some bones,' said the Cobbler,
     I sat at my tic-tac-to;
  And a footstep came to my door and stopped,
  And a hand groped to and fro;
  And I peered up over my boot and last;
  And my feet went cold as stones:
  I saw an eye at the keyhole, Susie! —-
     Grill me some bones!'


  Nothing on the grey roof, nothing on the brown,
  Only a little greening where the rain drips down;
  Nobody at the window, nobody at the door,
  Only a little hollow which a foot once wore;
  But still I tread on tiptoe, still tiptoe on I go,
  Past nettles, porch, and weedy well, for oh, I know
  A friendless face is peering, and a still clear eye
  Peeps closely through the casement
        as my step goes by.


  When the last colours of the day
  Have from their burning ebbed away,
  About that ruin, cold and lone,
  The cricket shrills from stone to stone;
  And scattering o'er its darkened green,
  Bands of the fairies may be seen,
  Chattering like grasshoppers, their feet
  Dancing a thistledown dance round it:
  While the great gold of the mild moon
  Tinges their tiny acorn shoon.


  Up on their brooms the Witches stream,
  Crooked and black in the crescent's gleam;
  One foot high, and one foot low,
  Bearded, cloaked, and cowled, they go,
  'Neath Charlie's Wain they twitter and tweet,
  And away they swarm 'neath the Dragon's feet,
  With a whoop and a flutter they swing and sway,
  And surge pell-mell down the Milky Way.
  Betwixt the legs of the glittering Chair
  They hover and squeak in the empty air.
  Then round they swoop past the glimmering Lion
  To where Sirius barks behind huge Orion;
  Up, then, and over to wheel amain,
  Under the silver, and home again.


  From his cradle in the glamourie
  They have stolen my wee brother,
  Housed a changeling in his swaddlings
  For to fret my own poor mother.
  Pules it in the candle light
  Wi' a cheek so lean and white,
  Chinkling up its eyne so wee
  Wailing shrill at her an' me.
  It we'll neither rock nor tend
  Till the Silent Silent send,
  Lapping in their awesome arms
  Him they stole with spells and charms,
  Till they take this changeling creature
  Back to its own fairy nature —
  Cry! Cry! As long as may be,
  Ye shall ne'er be woman's baby!


  'Ahoy, and ahoy!'
     'Twixt mocking and merry —
  'Ahoy and ahoy, there,
     Young man of the ferry!'

  She stood on the steps
     In the watery gloom —-
  That Changeling —'Ahoy, there!'
     She called him to come.
  He came on the green wave,
     He came on the grey,
  Where stooped that sweet lady
     That still summer's day.
  He fell in a dream
     Of her beautiful face,
  As she sat on the thwart
     And smiled in her place.

  No echo his oar woke,
     Float silent did they,
  Past low-grazing cattle
     In the sweet of the hay.
  And still in a dream
     At her beauty sat he,
  Drifting stern foremost
     Down — down to the sea.

  Come you, then: call,
     When the twilight apace
  Brings shadow to brood
     On the loveliest face;
  You shall hear o'er the water
     Ring faint in the grey —-
  'Ahoy, and ahoy, there!'
     And tremble away;
  'Ahoy, and ahoy!…'
     And tremble away.


  'Won't you look out of your window, Mrs. Gill?'
     Quoth the Fairy, niddling, nodding in the garden;
  'Can't you look out of your window, Mrs. Gill?'
     Quoth the Fairy, laughing softly in the garden;
  But the air was still, the cherry boughs were still,
  And the ivy-tod 'neath the empty sill,
  And never from her window looked out Mrs. Gill
     On the Fairy shrilly mocking in the garden.

  'What have they done with you, you poor Mrs. Gill?'
     Quoth the Fairy brightly glancing in the garden;
  'Where have they hidden you, you poor old Mrs. Gill?'
     Quoth the Fairy dancing lightly in the garden;

  But night's faint veil now wrapped the hill,
     Stark 'neath the stars stood the dead-still Mill,
  And out of her cold cottage never answered Mrs. Gill
     The Fairy mimbling, mambling in the garden.


  I have heard a lady this night,
     Lissom and jimp and slim,
  Calling me — calling me over the heather,
     'Neath the beech boughs dusk and dim.

  I have followed a lady this night,
     Followed her far and lone,
  Fox and adder and weasel know
     The ways that we have gone.

  I sit at my supper 'mid honest faces,
     And crumble my crust and say
  Naught in the long-drawn drawl of the voices
     Talking the hours away.

  I'll go to my chamber under the gable,
     And the moon will lift her light
  In at my lattice from over the moorland
     Hollow and still and bright.

  And I know she will shine on a lady of witchcraft,
     Gladness and grief to see,
  Who has taken my heart with her nimble fingers,
     Calls in my dreams to me;

  Who has led me a dance by dell and dingle
     My human soul to win,
  Made me a changeling to my own, own mother,
     A stranger to my kin.


  There were two Fairies, Gimmul and Mel,
  Loved Earth Man's honey passing well;
  Oft at the hives of his tame bees
  They would their sugary thirst appease.

  When dusk began to darken to night,
  They would hie along in the fading light,
  With elf-locked hair and scarlet lips,
  And small stone knives to slit the skeps,
  So softly not a bee inside
  Should hear the woven straw divide:
  And then with sly and greedy thumbs
  Would rifle the sweet honeycombs.

  And drowsily drone to drone would say,
  'A cold, cold wind blows in this way';
  And the great Queen would turn her head
  From face to face, astonished,
  And, though her maids with comb and brush
  Would comb and soothe and whisper, 'Hush!'
  About the hive would shrilly go
  A keening — keening, to and fro;
  At which those robbers 'neath the trees
  Would taunt and mock the honey-bees,
  And through their sticky teeth would buzz
  Just as an angry hornet does.

  And when this Gimmul and this Mel
  Had munched and sucked and swilled their fill,
  Or ever Man's first cock could crow
  Back to their Faerie Mounds they'd go;
  Edging across the twilight air,
  Thieves of a guise remotely fair.


  Longlegs — he yelled 'Coo-ee!'
     And all across the combe
  Shrill and shrill it rang — rang through
     The clear green gloom.
  Fairies there were a-spinning,
     And a white tree-maid
  Lifted her eyes, and listened
     In her rain-sweet glade.
  Bunnie to bunnie stamped; old Wat
     Chin-deep in bracken sate;
  A throstle piped, 'I'm by, I'm by!'
     Clear to his timid mate.
  And there was Longlegs, straddling,
     And hearkening was he,
  To distant Echo thrilling back
     A thin 'Coo-ee!'


  Three and thirty birds there stood
  In an elder in a wood;
  Called Melmillo — flew off three,
  Leaving thirty in the tree;
  Called Melmillo — nine now gone,
  And the boughs held twenty-one;
  Called Melmillo — and eighteen
  Left but three to nod and preen;
  Called Melmillo — three — two — one
  Now of birds were feathers none.

  Then stole Melmillo in
  To that wood all dusk and green,
  And with lean long palms outspread
  Softly a strange dance did tread;
  Not a note of music she
  Had for echoing company;
  All the birds were flown to rest
  In the hollow of her breast;
  In the wood — thorn, elder, willow —
  Danced alone — lone danced Melmillo.



  Of all the trees in England,
     Her sweet three corners in,
  Only the Ash, the bonnie Ash
     Burns fierce while it is green.

  Of all the trees in England,
     From sea to sea again,
  The Willow loveliest stoops her boughs
     Beneath the driving rain.

  Of all the trees in England,
     Past frankincense and myrrh,
  There's none for smell, of bloom and smoke,
     Like Lime and Juniper.

  Of all the trees in England,
     Oak, Elder, Elm and Thorn,
  The Yew alone burns lamps of peace
     For them that lie forlorn.


  Slowly, silently, now the moon
  Walks the night in her silver shoon:
  This way, and that, she peers and sees
  Silver fruit upon silver trees;
  One by one the casements catch
  Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
  Couched in his kennel, like a log,
  With paws of silver sleeps the dog
  From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
  Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep;
  A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
  With silver claws and silver eye;
  And moveless fish in the water gleam
  By silver reeds in a silver stream.


  Often I've heard the Wind sigh
     By the ivied orchard wall,
  Over the leaves in the dark night,
     Breathe a sighing call,
  And faint away in the silence
     While I, in my bed,
  Wondered, 'twixt dreaming and waking,
        What it said.

  Nobody knows what the Wind is,
     Under the height of the sky,
  Where the hosts of the stars keep far away house
     And its wave sweeps by —
  Just a great wave of the air,
     Tossing the leaves in its sea,
  And foaming under the eaves of the roof
        That covers me.

  And so we live under deep water,
     All of us, beasts and men,
  And our bodies are buried down under the sand,
     When we go again;
  And leave, like the fishes, our shells,
     And float on the Wind and away,
  To where, o'er the marvellous tides of the air,
     Burns day.


  Wide are the meadows of night,
  And daisies are shining there,
  Tossing their lovely dews,
  Lustrous and fair;
  And through these sweet fields go,
  Wanderers amid the stars —
  Venus, Mercury, Uranus, Neptune,
  Saturn, Jupiter, Mars.

  'Tired in their silver, they move,
  And circling, whisper and say,
  Fair are the blossoming meads of delight
  Through which we stray.

  A little sound —-
  Only a little, a little —-
  The breath in a reed,
  A trembling fiddle;
  A trumpet's ring,
  The shuddering drum;
  So all the glory, bravery, hush
  Of music come.

  A little sound —-
  Only a stir and a sigh
  Of each green leaf
  Its fluttering neighbor by;
  Oak on to oak,
  The wide dark forest through —-
  So o'er the watery wheeling world
  The night winds go.

  A little sound,
  Only a little, a little —-
  The thin high drone
  Of the simmering kettle,
  The gathering frost,
  The click of needle and thread;
  Mother, the fading wall, the dream,
  The drowsy bed.


  Will he ever be weary of wandering,
     The flaming sun?
  Ever weary of waning in lovelight,
     The white still moon?
  Will ever a shepherd come
     With a crook of simple gold,
  And lead all the little stars
     Like lambs to the fold?

  Will ever the Wanderer sail
     From over the sea,
  Up the river of water,
     To the stones to me?
  Will he take us all into his ship,
     Dreaming, and waft us far,
  To where in the clouds of the West
     The Islands are?



  Where is beauty?
        Gone, gone:
  The cold winds have taken it
     With their faint moan;
  The white stars have shaken it,
     Trembling down,
  Into the pathless deeps of the sea.
        Gone, gone
     Is beauty from me.

  The clear naked flower
     Is faded and dead;
  The green-leafed willow,
     Drooping her head,
  Whispers low to the shade
     Of her boughs in the stream,
        Sighing a beauty,
        Secret as dream.


  As I sat musing by the frozen dyke,
  There was a man marching with a bright steel pike,
  Marching in the dayshine like a ghost came he,
  And behind me was the moaning and the murmur
        Of the sea.

  As I sat musing, 'twas not one but ten —-
  Rank on rank of ghostly soldiers marching o'er the fen,
  Marching in the misty air they showed in dreams to me,
  And behind me was the shouting and the shattering
        of the sea.

  As I sat musing, 'twas a host in dark array,
  With their horses and their cannon wheeling onward
        to the fray,
  Moving like a shadow to the fate the brave must dree,
  And behind me roared the drums, rang the trumpets
        of the sea.


  Thousandz of thornz there be
  On the Rozez where gozez
  The Zebra of Zee:
  Sleek, striped, and hairy,
  The steed of the Fairy
  Princess of Zee.

  Heavy with blossomz be
  The Rozez that growzez
  In the thickets of Zee.
  Where grazez the Zebra,
  Marked Abracadeeebra,
  Of the Princess of Zee.

  And he nozez that poziez
  Of the Rozez that grozez
  So luvez'm and free,
  With an eye, dark and wary,
  In search of a Fairy,
  Whose Rozez he knowzez
  Were not honeyed for he,
  But to breathe a sweet incense
  To solace the Princess
  Of far-away Zee.


  A Song of Enchantment I sang me there,
  In a green —green wood, by waters fair,
  Just as the words came up to me
  I sang it under the wildwood tree.

  Widdershins turned I, singing it low,
  Watching the wild birds come and go;
  No cloud in the deep dark blue to be seen
  Under the thick-thatched branches green.

  Twilight came; silence came;
  The planet of Evening's silver flame;
  By darkening paths I wandered through
  Thickets trembling with drops of dew.

  But the music is lost and the words are gone
  Of the song I sang as I sat alone,
  Ages and ages have fallen on me—
  On the wood and the pool and the elder tree.


        Sunlight, moonlight,
        Twilight, starlight-
  Gloaming at the close of day,
        And an owl calling,
        Cool dews falling
  In a wood of oak and may.

        Lantern-light, taper-light,
        Torchlight, no-light:
  Darkness at the shut of day,
        And lions roaring,
        Their wrath pouring
  In wild waste places far away.

        Elf-light, bat-light,
        Touchwood-light and toad-light,
  And the sea a shimmering gloom of grey,
        And a small face smiling
        In a dream's beguiling
  In a world of wonders far away.


  Sweep thy faint Strings, Musician,
     With thy long lean hand;
  Downward the starry tapers burn,
     Sinks soft the waning sand;
  The old hound whimpers couched in sleep,
     The embers smoulder low;
  Across the walls the shadows
        Come, and go.

  Sweep softly thy strings, Musician,
     The minutes mount to hours;
  Frost on the windless casement weaves
     A labyrinth of flowers;
  Ghosts linger in the darkening air,
     Hearken at the open door;
  Music hath called them, dreaming,
        Home once more.


  Who said, 'Peacock Pie?'
     The old King to the sparrow:
  Who said, 'Crops are ripe?'
     Rust to the harrow:
  Who said, 'Where sleeps she now?'
     Where rests she now her head,
  Bathed in eve's loveliness'? —-
     That's what I said.

  Who said, 'Ay, mum's the word'?
     Sexton to willow:
  Who said, 'Green duck for dreams,
     Moss for a pillow'?

  Who said, 'All Time's delight
     Hath she for narrow bed;
  Life's troubled bubble broken'? —-
     That's what I said.


  AT the edge of All the Ages
     A Knight sate on his steed,
  His armor red and thin with rust
     His soul from sorrow freed;
  And he lifted up his visor
     From a face of skin and bone,
  And his horse turned head and whinnied
     As the twain stood there alone.

  No bird above that steep of time
     Sang of a livelong quest;
  No wind breathed,
  "Lone for an end!" cried Knight to steed,
     Loosed an eager rein—
  Charged with his challenge into space:
     And quiet did quiet remain.

End of Project Gutenberg's Peacock Pie, A Book of Rhymes, by Walter de la Mare