Many Voices | Page 4

moonlight and kissed again,
And looked, through my face, to the
moon-shroud, spread
Over the garlanded garden bed;
And--"How
ghostly the moonlight is!" she said.

Back through the garden, the wood, the lane,
I came to mine own
place again.
I wore the garments we all must wear,
And no one saw
me walking there.
No one heard my thin feet pass
Through the
white of the stones and the gray of the grass,
Along the path where
the moonlight hews
Slabs of shadow for thirteen yews.
In the hollow where drifted dreams lie deep
It is good to sleep: it was
good to sleep:
But my bed has grown cold with the drip of the dew,

And I cannot sleep as I used to do.
POEM: FOR DOLLY--WHO DOES NOT LEARN HER
LESSONS
You see the fairies dancing in the fountain,
Laughing, leaping,
sparkling with the spray;
You see the gnomes, at work beneath the
mountain,
Make gold and silver and diamonds every day;
You see
the angels, sliding down the moonbeams,
Bring white dreams like
sheaves of lilies fair;
You see the imps, scarce seen against the
moonbeams,
Rise from the bonfire's blue and liquid air.
All the enchantment, all the magic there is
Hid in trees and blossoms,
to you is plain and true.
Dewdrops in lupin leaves are jewels for the
fairies;
Every flower that blows is a miracle for you.
Air, earth,
water, fire, spread their splendid wares for you. Millions of magics
beseech your little looks;
Every soul your winged soul meets, loves
you and cares for you. Ah! why must we clip those wings and dim
those eyes with books?
Soon, soon enough the magic lights grow dimmer,
Marsh mists arise
to cloud the radiant sky,
Dust of hard highways will veil the starry
glimmer,
Tired hands will lay the folded magic by.
Storm winds
will blow through those enchanted closes,
Fairies be crushed where
weed and briar grow strong . . .
Leave her her crown of magic stars
and roses,
Leave her her kingdom--she will not keep it long!

POEM: QUESTIONS
What do the roses do, mother,
Now that the summer's done?
They
lie in the bed that is hung with red
And dream about the sun.
What do the lilies do, mother,
Now that there's no more June?
Each
one lies down in her white nightgown
And dreams about the moon.
What can I dream of, mother,
With the moon and the sun away?
Of
a rose unborn, of an untried thorn,
And a lily that lives a day!
POEM: THE DAISIES
In the great green park with the wooden palings -
The wooden palings
so hard to climb,
There are fern and foxglove, primrose and violet,

And green things growing all the time;
And out in the open the
daisies grow,
Pretty and proud in their proper places,
Millions of
white-frilled daisy faces,
Millions and millions--not one or two.

And they call to the bluebells down in the wood:
"Are you out--are
you in? We have been so good
All the school-time winter through,

But now it's playtime,
The gay time, the May time;
We are out and
at play. Where are you?"
In the gritty garden inside the railings,
The spiky railings all painted
green,
There are neat little beds of geraniums and fuchsia
With
never a happy weed between.
There's a neat little grass plot, bald in
places,
And very dusty to touch;
A respectable man comes once a
week
To keep the garden weeded and swept,
To keep it as we don't
want it kept.
He cuts the grass with his mowing-machine,
And we
think he cuts it too much.
But even on the lawn, all dry and gritty,

The daisies play about.
They are so brave as well as so pretty,
You
cannot keep them out.
I love them, I want to let them grow,
But that
respectable man says no.

He cuts off their heads with his
mowing-machine
Like the French Revolution guillotine.
He sweeps

up the poor little pretty faces,
The dear little white-frilled daisy faces;

Says things must be kept in their proper places
He has no frill
round his ugly face -
I wish I could find his proper place!
POEM: THE TOUCHSTONE
There was a garden, very strange and fair
With all the roses summer
never brings.
The snowy blossom of immortal Springs
Lighted its
boughs, and I, even I, was there.
There were new heavens, and the
earth was new,
And still I told my heart the dream was true.
But when the sun stood still, and Time went out
Like a blown
candle--when she came to me
Under the bride-veil of the blossomed
tree,
Chill through the garden blew the winds of doubt,
And when,
with starry eyes, and lips too near,
She leaned to me, my heart knew
what to fear.
"It is no dream," she said. "What dream had stayed
So long? It is the
blessed isle that lies
Between the tides of twin eternities.
It is our
island; do not be afraid!"
Then, then at last my heart was well
deceived;
I hid my eyes; I trembled and believed.
Her real presence sanctified my faith,
Her very voice my restless
fears beguiled,
And it was Life that clasped me when she smiled,

But when she said "I love you!" it was Death.
That, that