The Triumph Of Music Part 14

There were Faeries two or three, b.u.t.tercups brimmed up with dew, Winning faces sweet to see, Then mine eyes closed heavily: "Faeries, what would you?"

V

There were Faeries two or three, And my babe was dreaming deep, White as whitest ivory, In its crib of ebony Rocked and crooned on sleep.

VI

There were Faeries two or three Standing in the mocking moon, And mine eyes closed drowsily, Drowsily and suddenly There my babe was gone.

VII

Now no Faeries two or three Loitered in the moon alone; Jesu, Marie, comfort me!

What is this instead I see-- Ugly skin and bone.

VIII

There were Faeries two or three Stood with buckles on red shoon, But with evil sorcery My sweet babe to Faery They did steal right soon.

ST. JOHN'S EVE.

I

Dizzily round On the elf-hills white in the yellow moonlight To a sweet, unholy, ravishing sound Of wizard voices from underground, Their mazy dance the Elle-maids wound On St. John's Eve.

II

Beautiful white, Like a wreath of mist by the starbeams kissed; And frail, sweet faces bloomed out on the night From floating tresses of glow-worm light, That puffed like foam to the left and the right On St. John's Eve.

III

Warily there They flashed like a rill which the moonbeams fill, But I saw what a mockery all of them were With their hollow bodies, when the moonlit air Rayed out through their eyes with a sudden glare On St. John's Eve.

IV

Solemnly sweet, By the river's banks in the rushes' ranks, The Necks their sorrowful songs repeat: A music of winds over dipping wheat, Of moss-dulled cascades seemed to meet On St. John's Eve.

V

Drowsily swam The fire-flies fleet in eddies of heat; Through the willows a glimmer of gold harps came, And I saw their hair like a misty flame Bunched over white brows, too white to name, On St. John's Eve.

VI

Beggarly torn, A wizen chap in a red-peaked cap, All gray with the chaff and dust of the corn, And strong with the pungent scent of the barn, The Nis scowled under the flowering thorn On St. John's Eve.

VII

Merrily call The singing crickets in the twinkling thickets, And the Troll hill rose on pillars tall, Crimson pillars that ranked a hall Where the beak-nosed Trolls were holding a ball On St. John's Eve.

VIII

Reveling flew From beakers of gold the wa.s.sail old; And she reached me a goblet brimmed bright with dew-- But her wily witcheries well I knew, And the philtre over my shoulder threw On St. John's Eve.

LALAGE.

What were sweet life without her Who maketh all things sweet With smiles that dream about her, With dreams that come and fleet!

Soft moods that end in languor; Soft words that end in sighs; Curved frownings as of anger; Cold silence of her eyes.

Sweet eyes born but for slaying, Deep violet-dark and lost In dreams of whilom Maying In climes unstung of frost.

Wild eyes shot through with fire G.o.d's light in G.o.dless years, Brimmed wine-dark with desire, A birth for dreams and tears.

Dear tears as sweet as laughter, Low laughter sweet as love Unwound in ripples after Sad tears we knew not of.

What if the day be lawless, What if the heart be dead, Such tears would make it flawless, Such laughter make it red.

Lips that were curled for kisses, For loves and hates and scorns, Brows under gold of tresses, Brows beauteous as the Morn's.

Imperial locks and tangled Down to the graceful hips; Hair where one might be strangled Carousing on thy lips.

Rose-lovely lips that hover About the honeyed words, That slip wild bees from clover Whose sweets their sweet affords.

Though days be robbed of sunlight, White teeth make light thereof; Though nights unknown of onelight, Thine eyes were stars enough.

Ah, lily-lovely features, Round temples, throat, and chin, Sweet G.o.ds of G.o.dless natures, Sweet love of loveless men!

Still moods and slumberous fanned on To dreams that rock to sleep, Unmerciful abandon, That haunts or makes one weep.

She walks as if with sorrows And all unknown of joy; Eyes fixed on dim to-morrows That all sad feet decoy.

Yet she, a peer of pleasures, Tears from Time's taloned hand The hour-gla.s.s he treasures, And wastes its sullen sand.

Makes of all hours a beaker Brimmed full of lordly wine, Cold gold of Life's mad liquor, And quaffs to me and mine.

The love on lips grows fairer, Keen lights in eyes make wars, And throat and breast grow rarer Than the white-throated stars.

Fleet smiles come fleet and faster And web the willing soul; Warm b.r.e.a.s.t.s of alabaster Have snared it as a whole.

What then were h.e.l.l or heaven, The fear of heaven or h.e.l.l!