When chafers drone their litany
And pray, "Oh, Father, grant that we
From airy-mouse delivered be,"
Go seek the charm.
Under the sky, when a star shoots,
Beneath an oak, when the owl hoots,
Gather ye simples, dig ye roots
For the rare charm.
That glassy ghost upon a thorn--
The raiment of a snake outworn--
Must backward through the dark be borne
To feed the charm.
A glow-worm--she whose gentle light
Glimmers green-gold through a blue night
Beside the churchyard aconite--
Shall help the charm.
One willow from the cradle take
Where a boy baby lies awake,
And splinters off a coffin break
To build the charm.
A tarnished silver chalice bring,
Dead gossips gave at christening,
And dip the moonlight from a spring
To crown the charm.
This much, God wot, a child might do,
Yet all must fail if haply you
Lack a child's faith, so trusting, true,
To bless the charm.
Many the spells of high degree
And fruitful happiness I see
All lost, for faith to set them free
And work the charm.
JOE'S DONKEY
The harp of night had silver strings,
The moon was low, the stars burned dim,
When from a wood, with roaring wings,
Joe flushed a brace of cherubim.
His eye did bulge at sign so brave
To see the shining angels pass;
Then, happening beside her grave,
He met his dead and buried ass!
She'd broke a leg and so was slain
And buried here a week ago;
Now, all alive and sound again,
She brayed with joy to welcome Joe!
A holy cross that donkeys bear,
Since Jesus Christ did deign to ride,
The cherubs tempted to repair
That ancient beast in bone and hide.
The harp of morn had golden strings
Ere home they came--Joe's ass and he;
And when their neighbours heard these things
They praised the Lord right heartily.
DIANA
Look not upon a moon that's new,
For with her bitter sickle keen
She comes between, she comes between,
And cuts the tender from the true.
Look not upon a white full moon:
Her stiff-starched pudency doth shame
The throbbing pulse, the leaping flame,
And freezes passion at its noon.
Look not upon a moon that's old
With fallen breast and shadowy eyes,
Till the last hope of loving dies,
And heart's outworn and blood run cold.
THE MOUSE AND THE EPITAPH
In moonlight grey the hungry church-yard mouse
Sat on old William Blee--his narrow house.
Climbing the mound, an ancient slate he read,
Then spoke, with rustic frankness, to the dead.
"'A husband and a father dear': What then?
So much is true of mice as well as men.
'Friend to the poor'? That's humbug, Billy Blee!
When did you ever spare a crumb for me?"
ECHO AND NARCISSUS
Through the green dell she went,
Bright haired, with cheeks that burned;
Her passion hardly pent;
Her eyes upon him turned.
Her crocus-coloured gown
Over her white, young breast beat up and down.
Adream, he did not guess,
But dwelt upon his thought
Of perfect loveliness,
Nor heeded when she caught
A sigh his bosom breathed,
And murmured it again with music wreathed.
Oh, wasted wealth of love;
While Echo's heart will break,
Narcissus from above,
Within a glassy lake,
Beholds perfection lie
And, for the vision of himself, must die.
Now, hid in bare-ribbed rock
With crocus-coloured veins,
She guards from windy shock,
She shields from wild March rains,
Where grass and granite meet,
The daffodil that's budding at her feet.
THE SANDHILLS