Song

Bear her alongKeep ye your songTender and sweet and low:Fairies must die!Ask ye not whyYe that have hurt her so.

Passing away--flower from the spray! Colour and light from the leaf!Soon, soon will the year shed its bloom on her bier, and the dustof its dreams on our grief.

Men upon earthBring us to birthGently at even and morn!When as brother and brotherThey greet one anotherAnd smile--then a fairy is born!

But at each cruel wordUpon earth that is heard,Each deed of unkindness or hate,Some fairy must passFrom the games in the grassAnd steal thro' the terrible Gate.

Passing away--flower from the spray! Colour and light from the leaf!Soon, soon will the year shed its bloom on her bier, and thedust of its dreams on our grief.

If ye knew, if ye knewAll the wrong that ye doBy the thought that ye harbour alone,How the face of some fairyGrows wistful and wearyAnd the heart in her cold as a stone!Ah, she was bornBlithe as the mornUnder an April sky,Born of the greetingOf two lovers meeting.They parted, and so she must die.

Passing away--flower from the spray! Colour and light from the leaf!Soon, soon will the year shed its bloom on her bier, and the dust ofits dreams on our grief.

Cradled in blisses,Yea, born of your kisses,Oh, ye lovers that met by the moon,She would not have criedIn the darkness and diedIf ye had not forgotten so soon.

Cruel mortals, they say,Live for ever and aye,And they pray in the dark on their knees.But the flowers that are fledAnd the loves that are dead,What heaven takes pity on these?

Bear her along--singing your song--tender and sweet and low!Fairies must die! Ask ye not why--ye that have hurt her so.

Passing away--Flower from the spray!Colour and light from the leaf!Soon, soon will the yearShed its bloom on her bierAnd the dust of its dreams on our grief.

Then we came through a glittering crystal grotBy a path like, a pale moonbeam,And a broad blue bridge of Forget-me-notOver a shimmering stream,To where, through the deep blue dusk, a gleamRose like the soul of the setting sun;A sunset breaking through the earth,A crimson sea of the poppies of dream,Deep as the sleep that gave them birthIn the night where all earthly dreams are done.

And then, like a pearl-pale porch of the moon,Faint and sweet as a starlit shrine,Over the gloomOf the crimson bloomWe saw the Gates of Ivory shine;And, lulled and lured by the lullaby tuneOf the cradling airs that drowsily creepFrom blossom to blossom, and lazily croonThrough the heart of the midnight's mystic noon,We came to the Gates of the City of Sleep.

Faint and sweet as a lily's reposeOn the broad black breast of a midnight lake,The City delighted the cradling night:Like a straggling palace of cloud it rose;The towers were crowned with a crystal lightLike the starry crown of a white snowflakeAs they pierced in a wild white pinnacled crowd,Through the dusky wreaths of enchanted cloudThat swirled all round like a witch's hair.

And we heard, as the sound of a great sea sighing,The sigh of the sleepless world of care;And we saw strange shadowy figures flyingUp to the Ivory Gates and beatingWith pale hands, long and famished and thin;Like blinded birds we saw them dashAgainst the cruelly gleaming wall:We heard them wearily moan and callWith sharp starved lips for ever entreatingThe pale doorkeeper to let them in.

And still, as they beat, again and again,We saw on the moon-pale lintels a splashOf crimson blood like a poppy-stainOr a wild red rose from the gardens of painThat sigh all night like a ghostly seaFrom the City of Sleep to Gethsemane.

And lo, as we neared the mighty crowdAn old blind man came, crying aloudTo greet us, as once the blind man criedIn the Bible picture--you know we triedTo paint that print, with its Eastern sun;But the reds and the yellows would mix and run,And the blue of the sky made a horrible messRight over the edge of the Lord's white dress.And the old blind man, just as though he had eyes,Came straight to meet us; and all the criesOf the crowd were hushed; and a strange sweet calmStole through the air like a breath of the balmThat was wafted abroad from the Forest of Thyme(For it rolled all round that curious climeWith its magical clouds of perfumed trees.)And the blind man cried, "Our help is at hand,Oh, brothers, remember the old command,Remember the frankincense and myrrh,Make way, make way for those little ones there;Make way, make way, I have seen them afarUnder a great white Eastern star;For I am the mad blind man who sees!"Then he whispered, softly--Of such as these;And through the hush of the cloven crowdWe passed to the gates of the City, and thereOur fairy heralds cried aloud--Open your Gates; don't stand and stare;These are the Children for whom our KingMade all the star-worlds dance in a ring!

And lo, like a sorrow that melts from the heartIn tears, the slow gates melted apart;And into the City we passed like a dream;And then, in one splendid marching streamThe whole of that host came following through.We were only children, just like you;Children, ah, but we felt so grandAs we led them--although we could understandNothing at all of the wonderful songThat rose all round as we marched along.

You that have seen how the world and its gloryChange and grow old like the love of a friend;You that have come to the end of the story,You that were tired ere you came to the end;You that are weary of laughter and sorrow,Pain and pleasure, labour and sin,Sick of the midnight and dreading the morrow,Ah, come in; come in.

You that are bearing the load of the ages;You that have loved overmuch and too late;You that confute all the saws of the sages;You that served only because you must wait,Knowing your work was a wasted endeavour;You that have lost and yet triumphed therein,Add loss to your losses and triumph for ever;Ah, come in; come in.

And we knew as we went up that twisted street,With its violet shadows and pearl-pale walls,We were coming to Something strange and sweet,For the dim air echoed with elfin calls;And, far away, in the heart of the City,A murmur of laughter and revelry rose,--A sound that was faint as the smile of Pity,And sweet as a swan-song's golden close.

And then, once more, as we marched along,There surged all round us that wonderful song;And it swung to the tramp of our marching feetBut ah, it was tenderer now and so sweetThat it made our eyes grow wet and blind,And the whole wide-world seem mother-kind,Folding us round with a gentle embrace,And pressing our souls to her soft sweet face.

Dreams; dreams; ah, the memory blinding us,Blinding our eyes to the way that we go;Till the new sorrow come, once more reminding usBlindly of kind hearts, ours long ago:Mother-mine, whisper we, yours was the love for me!Still, though our paths lie lone and apart,Yours is the true love, shining above for me,Yours are the kind eyes, hurting my heart.

Dreams; dreams; ah, how shall we sing of them,Dreams that we loved with our head on her breast:Dreams; dreams; and the cradle-sweet swing of them;Ay, for her voice was the sound we loved best:Can we remember at all or, forgetting it,Can we recall for a moment the gleamOf our childhood's delight and the wonder begetting it,Wonder awakened in dreams of a dream?

And once again, from the heart of the CityA murmur of tenderer laughter rose,A sound that was faint as the smile of Pity,And sweet as a swan-song's golden close;And it seemed as if some wonderful FairWere charming the night of the City of Dreams,For, over the mystical din out there,The clouds were litten with flickering gleams,And a roseate light like the day's first flushQuivered and beat on the towers above,And we heard through the curious crooning hushAn elfin song that we used to love.Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn ...And the soft wind blew it the other way;So all that we heard was--Cow's in the corn;But we never heard anything half so gay!And ever we seemed to be drawing nearerThat mystical roseate smoke-wreathed glare,And the curious music grew louder and clearer,Till mustard-seed said, "We are lucky, you see,We've arrived at a time of festivity!"And so to the end of the street we came,And turned a corner, and--there we were,In a place that glowed like the dawn of day,A crowded clamouring City squareLike the cloudy heart of an opal, aflameWith the lights of a great Dream-Fair:Thousands of children were gathered there,Thousands of old men, weary and grey,And the shouts of the showmen filled the air--This way! This way! This way!

And See-Saw; Margery Daw; we heard a rollicking shout,As the swing-boats hurtled over our heads to the tune of the roundabout;And Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn, we heard the showmen cry,And Dickory Dock, I'm as good as a clock, we heard the swings reply.

This way, this way to your Heart's Desire;Come, cast your burdens down;And the pauper shall mount his throne in the skies,And the king be rid of his crown:And souls that were dead shall be fed with fireFrom the fount of their ancient pain,And your lost love come with the light in her eyesBack to your heart again.

Ah, here be sure she shall never proveLess kind than her eyes were bright;This way, this way to your old lost love,You shall kiss her lips to-night;This way for the smile of a dead man's faceAnd the grip of a brother's hand,This way to your childhood's heart of graceAnd your home in Fairy-land.

Dickory Dock, I'm as good as a clock, d'you hear my swivels chime?To and fro as I come and go, I keep eternal time.O, little Bo-peep, if you've lost your sheep and don't know whereto find 'em,Leave 'em alone and they'll come home, and carry their tails behind 'em.

And See-Saw; Margery Daw; there came the chorussing shout,As the swing-boats answered the roaring tune of the rollickingroundabout;Dickory, dickory, dickory, dock, d'you hear my swivels chime?Swing; swing; you're as good as a king if you keep eternal time.

Then we saw that the tunes of the world were one;And the metre that guided the rhythmic sunWas at one, like the ebb and the flow of the sea,With the tunes that we learned at our mother's knee;The beat of the horse-hoofs that carried us downTo see the fine Lady of Banbury Town;And so, by the rhymes that we knew, we could tellWithout knowing the others--that all was well.

And then, our brains began to spin;For it seemed as if that mighty dinWere no less than the cries of the poets and sagesOf all the nations in all the ages;And, if they could only beat out the wholeOf their music together, the guerdon and goalOf the world would be reached with one mighty shout,And the dark dread secret of Time be out;And nearer, nearer they seemed to climb,And madder and merrier rose the song,And the swings and the see-saws marked the time;For this was the maddest and merriest throngThat ever was met on a holy-dayTo dance the dust of the world away;And madder and merrier, round and roundThe whirligigs whirled to the whirling sound,Till it seemed that the mad song burst its barsAnd mixed with the song of the whirling stars,The song that the rhythmic Time-Tides tellTo seraphs in Heaven and devils in Hell;Ay; Heaven and Hell in accordant chimeWith the universal rhythm and rhymeWere nearing the secret of Space and Time;The song of that ultimate mysteryWhich only the mad blind men who see,Led by the laugh of a little child,Can utter; ay, wilder and yet more wildIt maddened, till now--full song--it was out!It roared from the starry roundabout--

A child was born in Bethlehem, in Bethlehem, in Bethlehem,A child was born in Bethlehem; ah, hear my fairy fable;For I have seen the King of Kings, no longer thronged with angel wings,But crooning like a little babe, and cradled in a stable.

The wise men came to greet him with their gifts of myrrhand frankincense,--Gold and myrrh and frankincense they brought to make him mirth;And would you know the way to win to little brother Peterkin,My childhood's heart shall guide you through the glories ofthe earth.

A child was born in Bethlehem, in Bethlehem, in Bethlehem;The wise men came to welcome him: a star stood o'er the gable;And there they saw the King of Kings, no longer thronged withangel wings,But crooning like a little babe, and cradled in a stable.

And creeping through the music once again the fairy cryCame freezing o'er the snowy towers to lead us on to Peterkin:Once more the fairy bugles blew from lands beyond the sky,And we all groped out together, dazed and blind, we knew not why;Out through the City's farther gates we went to look for Peterkin;Out, out into the dark Unknown, and heard the clamour dieFar, far away behind us as we trotted on to Peterkin.

Then once more along the rareForest-paths we groped our way:Here the glow-worm's league-long glareTurned the Wild Thyme night to day:There we passed a sort of whaleSixty feet in length or more,But we knew it was a snailEven when we heard it snore.

Often through the glamorous gloomAlmost on the top of usWe beheld a beetle loomLike a hippopotamus;Once or twice a spotted toadLike a mountain wobbled byWith a rolling moon that glowedThrough the skin-fringe of its eye.

Once a caterpillar bowedDown a leaf of YgdrasilLike a sunset-coloured cloudSleeping on a quiet hill:Once we came upon a mothFast asleep with outspread wings,Like a mighty tissued clothWoven for the feet of kings.

There above the woods in stateMany a temple dome that glowsDelicately like a greatRainbow-coloured bubble rose:Though they were but flowers on earth,Oh, we dared not enter in;For in that divine re-birthLess than awe were more than sin.

Yet their mystic anthems cameSweetly to our listening ears;And their burden was the same--"No more sorrow, no more tears!Whither Peterkin has goneYou, assuredly, shall go:When your wanderings are done,All he knows you, too, shall know!"

So we thought we'd onward roamTill earth's Smallest Flower appeared,With a less tremendous domeLess divinely to be feared:Then, perchance, if we should dareTimidly to enter in,Might some kindly doorkeeperGive us news of Peterkin.

At last we saw a crimson porchFar away, like a dull red torchBurning in the purple gloom;And a great ocean of perfumeRolled round us as we drew anear,And then we strangely seemed to hearThe shadow of a mighty psalm,A sound as if a golden seaOf music swung in utter calmAgainst the shores of Eternity;And then we saw the mighty domeOf some mysterious Temple towerOn high; and knew that we had come,At last, to that sweet House of GraceWhich wise men find in every place--The Temple of the Smallest Flower.

And there--alas--our fairy friendsWhispered, "Here our kingdom ends:You must enter in alone,But your souls will surely showWhither Peterkin is goneAnd the road that you must go:We, poor fairies, have no souls!Hark, the warning hare-bell tolls;"So "Good-bye, good-bye," they said,"Dear little seekers-for-the-dead."They vanished; ah, but as they wentWe heard their voices softly blentIn some mysterious fairy songThat seemed to make us wise and strong;

For it was like the holy calmThat fills the bosomed rose with balm,Or blessings that the twilight breathesWhere the honeysuckle wreathesBetween young lovers and the skyAs on banks of flowers they lie;And with wings of rose and greenLaughing fairies pass unseen,Singing their sweet lullaby,--Lulla-lulla-lullaby!Lulla-lulla-lullaby!Ah, good-night, with lullaby!

Only a flower? Those carven walls,Those cornices and coronals,The splendid crimson porch, the thinStrange sounds of singing from within--Through the scented arch we stept,Pushed back the soft petallic door,And down the velvet aisles we crept;Was it a Flower--no more?

For one of the voices that we heard,A child's voice, clear as the voice of a bird,Was it not?--nay, it could not be!And a woman's voice that tenderlyAnswered him in fond refrain,And pierced our hearts with sweet sweet pain,As if dear Mary-mother hungAbove some little child, and sung.Between the waves of that golden seaThe cradle-songs of Eternity;And, while in her deep smile he basked,Answered whatsoe'er he asked.

What is there hid in the heart of a rose,Mother-mine?Ah, who knows, who knows, who knows?A man that died on a lonely hillMay tell you, perhaps, but none other will,Little child.

What does it take to make a rose,Mother-mine?The God that died to make it knowsIt takes the world's eternal wars,It takes the moon and all the stars,It takes the might of heaven and hellAnd the everlasting Love as well,Little child.

But there, in one great shrine apartWithin the Temple's holiest heart,We came upon a blinding light,Suddenly, and a burning throneOf pinnacled glory, wild and white;We could not see Who reigned thereon;For, all at once, as a wood-bird sings,The aisles were full of great white wingsRow above mystic burning row;And through the splendour and the glowWe saw four angels, great and sweet,With outspread wings and folded feet,Come gliding down from a heaven withinThe golden heart of Paradise;And in their hands, with laughing eyes,Lay little brother Peterkin.

And all around the Temple of the Smallest of the FlowersThe glory of the angels made a star for little Peterkin;For all the Kings of Splendour and all the Heavenly PowersWere gathered there together in the fairy forest bowersWith all their globed and radiant wings to make a star for Peterkin,The star that shone upon the East, a star that still is ours,Whene'er we hang our stockings up, a star of wings for Peterkin.

Then all, in one great flash, was gone--A voice cried, "Hush, all's well!"And we stood dreaming there alone,In darkness. Who can tellThe mystic quiet that we felt,As if the woods in worship knelt;Far off we heard a bellTolling strange human folk to prayerThrough fields of sunset-coloured air.

And then a voice, "Why, here they are!"And--as it seemed--we woke;The sweet old skies, great star by starUpon our vision broke;Field over field of heavenly blueRose o'er us; then a voice we knewSoftly and gently spoke--"See, they are sleeping by the sideOf that dear little one--who died."