XXVI.
Shelter at the last, a roof
Wrought of ling (in their behoof,
Foresters, that drive the deer).
What, and must they couch them here?
Ay, and ere the twilight fall
Gather forest berries small
And nuts down beaten for a meal.
XXVII.
Now the shy wood-wonners steal
Nearer, bright-eyed furry things,
Winking owls on silent wings
Glance, and float away. The light
In the wake o' the storm takes flight,
Day departeth: night—'t is night.
The crown'd king musing at morn by a clear sweet river.
Palms on the slope o' the valley, and no winds blow;
Birds blameless, dove-eyed, mystical talk deliver,
Oracles haply. The language he doth not know.
Bare, blue, are yon peakèd hills for a rampart lying,
As dusty gold is the light in the palms o'erhead,
'What is the name o' the land? and this calm sweet sighing,
If it be echo, where first was it caught and spread?
I might—I might be at rest in some field Elysian,
If this be asphodel set in the herbage fair,
I know not how I should wonder, so sweet the vision,
So clear and silent the water, the field, the air.
Love, are you by me! Malva, what think you this meaneth?
Love, do you see the fine folk as they move over there?
Are they immortals? Look you a wingèd one leaneth
Down from yon pine to the river of us unaware.
All unaware; and the country is full of voices,
Mild strangers passing: they reck not of me nor of thee.
List! about and around us wondrous sweet noises,
Laughter of little children and maids that dreaming be.
Love, I can see their dreams.' A dim smile flitteth
Over her lips, and they move as in peace supreme,
And a small thing, silky haired, beside her sitteth,
'O this is thy dream atween us—this is thy dream.'