III
What lore forlorn,
What tale of tales,
When man’s poor stock
Of wisdom fails
In Fire’s cave,
Is born!
Here Jack shall knock,
—That hero brave
On the giant’s door ...
With rumbling snore
The monster turns
From sleep,
And yawns....
But the sheep
Of Little Bo-Peep
(By magic quick
To wolves now turning)
Are following Jack.
Hark, crackle crack!
(Is it fire burning?)
They crunch, they lick
Up “Fe, Fo, Fum.”
Sucking his thumb
Little Jack Horner
Creeps from the corner
Where he had hidden
Behind a pie
From the giant’s eye.
Now doors as bidden
Do open fly,
And in they throng—
The prisoners all
With a merry song.
Here’s Old King Cole
To lead the ball!
How merrily
His fiddlers three
Strike up the air
That pleases his soul—
A mighty sound
As of wind in chimneys
When trees are bare....
Round and round
In smoke-wreaths whirl
Prince, Shepherd-girl,
King, goose-girl, queen,
All who have been
For joy of children,
And company,
Since tales began:
All that a man
Can believe and be
Never again;
Save when in fire
(Apple-logs green
Crossed cunningly)
He sees it plain,
As I have seen,
This thronged night-fire:
Such light that shines
Through Poetry and
Small tumbling strain
Of song, or from a window-pane
As daylight fails,
As evening pales
In a sweet land
Shadowed with pines,
Peopled with children-haunted pines
Murmuring fairy-tales.
[1] First version was published in Ducks, and other Verses, 1919.