Poetry

heather;

And then a pointed face was seen
Beneath a pointed cap of green;

And straight before the sleeping priest
There stood a man, of men the least⁠—

Three spans high as he rose to his feet,
And his hair was as yellow as waving wheat.

Now, what has a fairy to do with a priest
Who is six feet high in his socks at least?

He drew from his cap a feather grey,
On the nose of the sleeper he made it play;

The sleeper awoke with a sudden start,
With open mouth and beating heart.

He had dreamed the cow had got within
His garden ringed with jessamine,

And many a purple gillyflower eaten,
And under her hoofs the marigolds beaten.

Then ’gan to speak that goblin rare,
Brushing back his yellow hair:

“Man of wisdom, from thy sleeping
I have roused thee; for the weeping

“Of our great queen is ever heard
Among the haunts of bee and bird.

“We buried late in a hazel dell
A fairy whom we loved full well;

“The swiftest he to dance or fly,
And his hair was as dark as a plover’s eye.

“Man of wisdom, dost thou know
Where the souls of fairies go?”

This priest looked neither to right nor left,
Nigh of his wits by fear bereft.

“Ave Marie,” muttered he
Over the beads of his rosary.

The fairies’ herald spake once more:
“Say and thrice anigh thy door

“Every summer wilt thou see
Wild bees’ honey laid for thee.”

The father dropt his rosary⁠—
“They are lost, they are lost, each one,” cried he.

And then his heart grew well-nigh dead
Because of the thing his tongue had said.

As a wreath of smoke in wind-blown flight
The fairy vanished from his sight,

And came to where his brethren stood,
Away in the heart of the antique wood;

And when they heard that tale of his
They grew so very still, I wis

Were you a fairy you’d have heard
The breathing of the smallest bird,

The beating of a lev’ret’s heart;
And then the fay queen sobbed apart,

And all the sad fay chivalry
Upraised their voices bitterly.

---

A woodman on his homeward way
Heard the voice of their dismay,

And said, “Yon bittern cries, in truth,
As though his days were full of ruth.

“If I were free to do as little
As dance upon the spear-grass brittle,

“Or seek where sweetest water bubbles,
Remote from all the hard earth troubles,

“And cut no wood the whole day long,
I’d glad folks’ hearts with blither song.”

The Fairy Pedant

Scene:⁠—A circle of Druidic stones.

First Fairy	Afar from our lawn and our levee, O sister of sorrowful gaze! Where the roses in scarlet are heavy And dream of the end of their days, You move in another dominion And hang o’er the historied stone: Unpruned is your beautiful pinion Who wander and whisper alone.
All	Come away while the moon’s in the woodland, We’ll dance and then feast in a dairy. Though youngest of all in our good band, You are wasting away, little fairy.
Second Fairy	Ah! cruel ones, leave me alone now While I murmur a little and ponder The history here in the stone now; Then away and away will I wander, And measure the minds of the flowers, And gaze on the meadow-mice wary, And number their days and their hours⁠—
All	You are wasting away, little fairy.
Second Fairy	O shining ones, lightly with song pass, Ah! leave me, I pray you and beg. My mother drew forth from the long grass A piece of a nightingale’s egg, And cradled me here where are sung, Of birds even, longings for aery Wild wisdoms of spirit and tongue.
All	You are wasting away, little fairy.
First Fairy	Turning away. Though tenderest roses were round you, The soul of the pitiless place With pitiless magic has bound you⁠— Ah! woe for the loss of your face, And loss of your laugh and its lightness⁠— Ah! woe for your wings and your head⁠— Ah! woe for your eyes and their brightness⁠— Ah! woe for your slippers of red.
All	Come away while the moon’s in the woodland, We’ll dance and then feast in a dairy. Though youngest of all in our good band, She is wasting away, little fairy.

She Who Dwelt Among the Sycamores

A Fancy

A little boy outside the sycamore wood
Saw on the wood’s edge gleam an ash-grey feather;
A kid, held by one soft white ear for tether,
Trotted beside him in a playful mood.
A little boy inside the sycamore wood
Followed a ringdove’s ash-grey gleam of feather.
Noon wrapt the trees in veils of violet weather,
And on tiptoe the winds a-whispering stood.
Deep in the woodland paused they, the six feet
Lapped in the lemon daffodils; a bee
In the long grass⁠—four eyes droop low⁠—a seat
Of moss, a maiden weaving. Singeth she:
“I am lone Lady Quietness, my sweet,
And on this loom I weave thy destiny.”

A Legend

A drowned city is supposed to lie under the waters of Lough Gill.

The Maker of the stars and worlds
Sat underneath the market cross,
And the old men were walking, walking,
And little boys played pitch and toss.

“The props,” said He, “of stars and worlds
Are prayers of patient men and good.”
The boys, the women, and old men,
Listening, upon their shadows stood.

A grey professor passing cried,
“How few the mind’s intemperance rule!
What shallow thoughts about deep things!
The world grows old and plays the fool.”

The mayor came, leaning his deaf ear⁠—
There was some talking of the poor⁠—
And to himself cried, “Communist!”
And hurried to the guard-house door.

The bishop came with open book,
Whispering along the sunny path;
There was some talking of man’s god,
His god of stupor and of wrath.

The bishop murmured, “Atheist!
How sinfully the wicked scoff!”
And sent the old men on their way,
And drove the boys and women off.

The place was empty now of people.
A cock came by upon his toes;
An old horse looked across a fence,
And rubbed along the rail his nose.

The Maker of the stars and worlds
To His own house did him betake,
And on that city dropped a tear,
And now that city is a lake.

Street Dancers

Singing in this London street
To the rhythm of their feet,
By a window’s feeble light
Are two ragged children