Song
Dreams; dreams; ah, the memory blinding us,
Blinding our eyes to the way that we go;
Till the new sorrow come, once more reminding us
Blindly 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 gleam
Of our childhood’s delight and the wonder begetting it,
Wonder awakened in dreams of a dream?
And, once again, from the heart of the City
A 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 Fair
Were 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 flush
Quivered and beat on the towers above,
And we heard through the curious crooning hush
An elfin song that we used to love.
Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn ...
And the soft wind blew it the other way;
And 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 nearer
That 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 square
Like the cloudy heart of an opal, aflame
With 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 fire
From the fount of their ancient pain,
And your lost love come with the light in her eyes
Back to your heart again.
Ah, here be sure she shall never prove
Less 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 face
And the grip of a brother’s hand,
This way to your childhood’s heart of grace
And 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 where to 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 rollicking roundabout;
Dickory, dickory, dickory, dock, d’you hear my swivels chime?
Swing; swing; you’re as good as a king if you keep eternal time.