Many Voices | Page 4

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 at least could neither be nor seem -?Oh, then, indeed, I knew it was a dream!
POEM: THE DECEMBER ROSE
Here's a rose that blows for Chloe,?Fair as ever a rose in June was,?Now the garden's silent, snowy,?Where the burning summer noon was.
In your garden's summer glory?One poor corner, shelved and shady,?Told no rosy, radiant story,?Grew no rose to grace its lady.
What shuts sun out shuts out snow too;?From his nook your