The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Flower of Old Japan, and Other Poems This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: The Flower of Old Japan, and Other Poems Author: Alfred Noyes Release date: June 11, 2021 [eBook #65592] Language: English Credits: Tim Lindell, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FLOWER OF OLD JAPAN, AND OTHER POEMS *** THE FLOWER OF OLD JAPAN [Illustration] THE FLOWER OF OLD JAPAN AND OTHER POEMS BY ALFRED NOYES New York THE MACMILLAN COMPANY LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD. 1907 _All rights reserved_ COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. Set up and electrotyped. Published June, 1907. Norwood Press J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co. Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. ‘O ciel! toute la Chine est par terre en morceaux! Ce vase pâle et doux comme un reflet des eaux, Couvert d’oiseaux, de fleurs, de fruits, et des mensonges De ce vague idéal qui sort du bleu des songes, Ce vase unique, étrange, impossible, engourdi, Gardant sur lui le clair de lune en plein midi, Qui paraissait vivant, où luisait une flamme, Qui semblait presque un monstre et semblait presque une âme.’ --VICTOR HUGO (_Le Pot Cassé_). To CAROL A Little Maiden of Miyako PREFACE It is a perilous adventure--the writing of a preface, however brief, to one’s own poems. For one may be tempted to re-state matters that could find their full elucidation only in the verses themselves. Tennyson once remarked that poetry is like shot silk, glancing with many colours; and any attempt to define its meanings is as great a mistake as the attempt of nineteenth-century materialism to enclose the infinite universe in its logical nut-shells. Through poetry alone, whether of deeds or words, thought or colour, passion or marble, is it possible to approach the Infinite, or as Blake did:-- ‘To see a world in a grain of sand, A heaven in a wild flower; Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand, And Eternity in an hour.’ But this revelation is the sole end and object of all true art; and I hope it may not be thought presumptuous to say here simply that--whether the attempt be a success or a failure--it was especially my own aim in the two following poems. If the feet of childhood are set dancing in them, it was because as children we are best able to enter into that Kingdom of Dreams which is also the only true, the only real, Kingdom. The first tale, for instance, must not be taken to have any real relation to Japan. It belongs--as the _Spectator_ put it--to the kind of dreamland which an imaginative child might construct out of the oddities of a willow-pattern plate, and it differs chiefly from Wonderlands of the Lewis Carrol type in a certain seriousness behind its fantasy. It is astonishing to me that these things require comment; but undoubtedly they do. For, on the one hand, the first tale has been praised enthusiastically as a vivid picture of Japan, and the author has not only had to correspond with Tokyo on the subject, but was also invited to meetings of the Japan Society in London! On the other hand, because the child-voices are allowed to declare that Tusitala lies asleep in that distant country of dreams, a prosaic English critic once wrote a lengthy review in an important paper to point out my gross ignorance of the fact that Stevenson was really buried in Samoa! The tales are ‘such stuff as dreams are made on’; but--as a kinder critic has remarked--‘we ourselves are made of that stuff.’ It is perhaps because these poems are almost light enough for a nonsense-book that I feel there is something in them more elemental, more essential, more worthy of serious consideration, than the most ponderous philosophical poem I could write. They are based on the fundamental and very simple mystery of the universe--that anything, even a grain of sand, should exist at all. If we could understand that, we could understand everything! Set clear of all irrelevancies, that is the simple problem that has been puzzling all the ages; and it is well sometimes to forget our accumulated ‘knowledge’ and return to it in all its childish _naïveté_. It is well to face that inconceivable miracle, that fundamental impossibility which happens to have been possible, that contradiction in terms, that fundamental paradox, for which we have at best only a cruciform symbol, with its arms pointing in opposite directions and postulating, at once, an infinite God. The inscription on the “Wisdom Looking-Glass”; the discovery by the children that the self-limitation of their little wishes was necessary not only to their own happiness, but to the harmony of the whole world; the development of the same idea in the passages leading up to the song--_What does it take to make a rose?_--where a _divine_ act of loving self-limitation, an eternal self-sacrifice, an everlasting passion of the Godhead, such as perhaps was shadowed forth on Calvary, is found to be at the heart of the Universe, and to be--as it were--the highest aspect of the Paradox aforesaid, the living secret and price of our very existence; these things are only one twisted strand of the ‘shot silk’ out of which the two tales are woven. It is no new wisdom to regard these things through the eyes of little children; and I know--however insignificant they may be to others--these two tales contain as deep and true things as I, personally, have the power to express. I hope, therefore, that I may be pardoned, in these hurried days, for pointing out that the two poems are not to be taken merely as fairy-tales, but as an attempt to follow the careless and happy feet of childhood back into the kingdom of those dreams which, as we said above, are the sole reality worth living and dying for; those beautiful dreams, or those fantastic jests--if any care to call them so--for which mankind has endured so many triumphant martyrdoms that even amidst the rush and roar of modern materialism they cannot be quite forgotten. ALFRED NOYES. PERSONS OF THE TALE OURSELVES. THE TALL THIN MAN. THE DWARF BEHIND THE TWISTED PEAR-TREE. CREEPING SIN. THE MAD MOONSHEE. THE NAMELESS ONE. Pirates, Mandarins, Bonzes, Priests, Jugglers, Merchants, Ghastroi, Weirdrians, etc. PRELUDE You that have known the wonder zone Of islands far away; You that have heard the dinky bird And roamed in rich Cathay; You that have sailed o’er unknown seas To woods of Amfalula trees Where craggy dragons play: Oh, girl or woman, boy or man, You’ve plucked the Flower of Old Japan! Do you remember the blue stream; The bridge of pale bamboo; The path that seemed a twisted dream Where everything came true; The purple cherry-trees; the house With jutting eaves below the boughs; The mandarins in blue, With tiny, tapping, tilted toes, And curious curved mustachios? _The road to Old Japan!_ you cry, _And is it far or near?_ Some never find it till they die; Some find it everywhere; The road where restful Time forgets His weary thoughts and wild regrets And calls the golden year Back in a fairy dream to smile On young and old a little while. Some seek it with a blazing sword, And some with old blue plates; Some with a miser’s golden hoard; Some with a book of dates; Some with a box of paints; a few Whose loads of truth would ne’er pass through The first, white, fairy gates; And, oh, how shocked they are to find That truths are false when left behind! Do you remember all the tales That Tusitala told, When first we plunged thro’ purple vales In quest of buried gold? Do you remember how he said That if we fell and hurt our head Our hearts must still be bold, And we must never mind the pain But rise up and go on again? Do you remember? yes; I know You must remember still: He left us, not so long ago, Carolling with a will, Because he knew that he should lie Under the comfortable sky Upon a lonely hill, In Old Japan, when day was done; “Dear Robert Louis Stevenson.” And there he knew that he should find The hills that haunt us now; The whaups that cried upon the wind His heart remembered how; And friends he loved and left, to roam Far from the pleasant hearth of home, Should touch his dreaming brow; Where fishes fly and birds have fins, And children teach the mandarins. Ah, let us follow, follow far Beyond the purple seas; Beyond the rosy foaming bar, The coral reef, the trees, The land of parrots, and the wild That rolls before the fearless child Its ancient mysteries: Onward and onward, if we can, To Old Japan--to Old Japan. PART I EMBARKATION When the firelight, red and clear, Flutters in the black wet pane, It is very good to hear Howling winds and trotting rain: It is very good indeed, When the nights are dark and cold, Near the friendly hearth to read Tales of ghosts and buried gold. So with cosy toes and hands We were dreaming, just like you; Till we thought of palmy lands Coloured like a cockatoo; All in drowsy nursery nooks Near the clutching fire we sat, Searching quaint old story-books Piled upon the furry mat. Something haunted us that night Like a half-remembered name; Worn old pages in that light Seemed the same, yet not the same: Curling in the pleasant heat Smoothly as a shell-shaped fan, O! they breathed and smelt so sweet When we turned to Old Japan! Suddenly we thought we heard Someone tapping on the wall, Tapping, tapping like a bird, Till a panel seemed to fall Quietly; and a tall thin man Stepped into the glimmering room, And he held a little fan, And he waved it in the gloom. Curious reds, and golds, and greens Danced before our startled eyes, Birds from painted Indian screens, Beads, and shells, and dragon-flies; Wings, and flowers, and scent, and flame, Fans and fish and heliotrope; Till the magic air became Like a dream kaleidoscope. Then he told us of a land Far across a fairy sea; And he waved his thin white hand Like a flower, melodiously; While a red and blue macaw Perched upon his pointed head, And as in a dream, we saw All the curious things he said. Tucked in tiny palanquins, Magically swinging there, Flowery-kirtled mandarins Floated through the scented air; Wandering dogs and prowling cats Grinned at fish in painted lakes; Cross-legged conjurers on mats Fluted low to listening snakes. Fat black bonzes on the shore Watched where singing, faint and far, Boys in long blue garments bore Roses in a golden jar. While at carven dragon ships Floating o’er that silent sea, Squat-limbed gods with dreadful lips Leered and smiled mysteriously. Like an idol, shrined alone, Watched by secret oval eyes, Where the ruby wishing-stone Smouldering in the darkness lies, Anyone that wanted things Touched the jewel and they came: We were wealthier than kings If we could but do the same. Yes; we knew a hundred ways We might use it if we could; To be happy all our days As an Indian in a wood; No more daily lesson task, No more sorrow, no more care; So we thought that we would ask If he’d kindly lead us there. Ah! but then he waved his fan, And he vanished through the wall; Yet as in a dream, we ran Tumbling after, one and all; Never pausing once to think, Panting after him we sped; For we saw his robe of pink Floating backward as he fled. Down a secret passage deep, Under roofs of spidery stairs, Where the bat-winged nightmares creep, And a sheeted phantom glares Rushed we; ah! how strange it was Where no human watcher stood; Till we reached a gate of glass Opening on a flowery wood. Where the rose-pink robe had flown, Borne by swifter feet than ours, On to Wonder-Wander town, Through the wood of monstrous flowers; Mailed in monstrous gold and blue Dragon-flies like peacocks fled; Butterflies like carpets, too, Softly fluttered overhead. Down the valley, tip-a-toe, Where the broad-limbed giants lie Snoring, as when long ago Jack on a bean-stalk scaled the sky; Slowly, softly towards the town Stole we past old dreams again, Castles long since battered down, Dungeons of forgotten pain. Noonday brooded on the wood, Evening caught us ere we crept Where a twisted pear-tree stood, And a dwarf behind it slept; Round his scraggy throat he wore, Knotted tight, a scarlet scarf; Timidly we watched him snore, For he seemed a surly dwarf. Yet, he looked so very small, He could hardly hurt us much; We were nearly twice as tall, So we woke him with a touch Gently, and in tones polite, Asked him to direct our path; O! his wrinkled eyes grew bright Green with ugly gnomish wrath. He seemed to choke, And gruffly spoke, “You’re lost: deny it, if you can! You want to know The way to go? There’s no such place as Old Japan. “You want to seek-- No, no, don’t speak! You mean you want to steal a fan. You want to see The fields of tea? They don’t grow tea in Old Japan. “In China, well Perhaps you’d smell The cherry bloom: that’s if you ran A million miles And jumped the stiles, And never dreamed of Old Japan. “What, palanquins, And mandarins? And, what d’you say, a blue divan? And what? Hee! hee! You’ll never see A pig-tailed head in Old Japan. “You’d take away The ruby, hey? I never heard of such a plan! Upon my word It’s quite absurd There’s not a gem in Old Japan! “Oh, dear me, no! You’d better go Straight home again, my little man: Ah, well, you’ll see But don’t blame me; I don’t believe in Old Japan.” Then, before we could obey, O’er our startled heads he cast, Spider-like, a webby grey Net that held us prisoned fast; How we screamed, he only grinned, It was such a lonely place; And he said we should be pinned In his human beetle-case. Out he dragged a monstrous box From a cave behind the tree! It had four-and-twenty locks, But he could not find the key, And his face grew very pale When a sudden voice began Drawing nearer through the vale, Singing songs of Old Japan. SONG _Satin sails in a crimson dawn_ _Over the silky silver sea;_ _Purple veils of the dark withdrawn;_ _Heavens of pearl and porphyry;_ _Purple and white in the morning light_ _Over the water the town we knew,_ _In tiny state, like a willow-plate,_ _Shone, and behind it the hills were blue._ _There, we remembered, the shadows pass_ _All day long like dreams in the night;_ _There, in the meadows of dim blue grass,_ _Crimson daisies are ringed with white;_ _There the roses flutter their petals,_ _Over the meadows they take their flight,_ _There the moth that sleepily settles_ _Turns to a flower in the warm soft light._ _There when the sunset colours the streets_ _Everyone buys at wonderful stalls_ _Toys and chocolates, guns and sweets,_ _Ivory pistols, and Persian shawls:_ _Everyone’s pockets are crammed with gold;_ _Nobody’s heart is worn with care,_ _Nobody ever grows tired and old,_ _And nobody calls you “Baby” there._ _There with a hat like a round white dish_ _Upside down on each pig-tailed head,_ _Jugglers offer you snakes and fish,_ _Dreams and dragons and gingerbread;_ _Beautiful books with marvellous pictures,_ _Painted pirates and streaming gore,_ _And everyone reads, without any strictures,_ _Tales he remembers for evermore._ _There when the dim blue daylight lingers_ _Listening, and the West grows holy,_ _Singers crouch with their long white fingers_ _Floating over the zithern slowly:_ _Paper lamps with a peachy bloom_ _Burn above on the dim blue bough,_ _While the zitherns gild the gloom_ _With curious music! I hear it now!_ _Now_: and at that mighty word Holding out his magic fan, Through the waving flowers appeared, Suddenly, the tall thin man: And we saw the crumpled dwarf Trying to hide behind the tree, But his knotted scarlet scarf Made him very plain to see. Like a soft and smoky cloud Passed the webby net away; While its owner squealing loud Down behind the pear-tree lay; For the tall thin man came near, And his words were dark and gruff, And he swung the dwarf in the air By his long and scraggy scruff. There he kickled whimpering. But our rescuer touched the box, Open with a sudden spring Clashed the four-and-twenty locks; Then he crammed the dwarf inside, And the locks all clattered tight: Four-and-twenty times he tried Whether they were fastened right. Ah, he led us on our road, Showed us Wonder-Wander town; Then he fled: behind him flowed Once again the rose-pink gown: Down the long deserted street, All the windows winked like eyes, And our little trotting feet Echoed to the starry skies. Low and long for evermore Where the Wonder-Wander sea Whispers to the wistful shore Purple songs of mystery, Down the shadowy quay we came-- Though it hides behind the hill You will find it just the same And the seamen singing still. There we chose a ship of pearl, And her milky silken sail Seemed by magic to unfurl, Puffed before a fairy gale; Shimmering o’er the purple deep, Out across the silvery bar, Softly as the wings of sleep Sailed we towards the morning star. Over us the skies were dark, Yet we never needed light; Softly shone our tiny bark Gliding through the solemn night; Softly bright our moony gleam, Glimmered o’er the glistening waves, Like a cold sea-maiden’s dream Globed in twilit ocean caves. So all night our shallop passed Many a haunt of old desire, Blurs of savage blossom massed Red above a pirate-fire; Huts that gloomed and glanced among Fruitage dipping in the blue; Songs the sirens never sung, Shores Ulysses never knew. All our fairy rigging shone Richly as a rainbow seen Where the moonlight floats upon Gossamers of gold and green: All the tiny spars were bright; Beaten gold the bowsprit was; But our pilot was the night, And our chart a looking-glass. PART II THE ARRIVAL With rosy finger-tips the Dawn Drew back the silver veils, Till lilac shimmered into lawn Above the satin sails; And o’er the waters, white and wan, In tiny patterned state, We saw the streets of Old Japan Shine, like a willow plate. O, many a milk-white pigeon roams The purple cherry crops, The mottled miles of pearly domes, And blue pagoda tops, The river with its golden canes And dark piratic dhows, To where beyond the twisting vanes The burning mountain glows. A snow-peak in the silver skies Beyond that magic world, We saw the great volcano rise With incense o’er it curled, Whose tiny thread of rose and blue Has risen since time began, Before the first enchanter knew The peak of Old Japan. Nobody watched us quietly steer The pinnace to the painted pier, Except one pig-tailed mandarin, Who sat upon a chest of tea Pretending not to hear or see!... His hands were very long and thin, His face was very broad and white; And O, it was a fearful sight To see him sit alone and grin! His grin was very sleek and sly: Timidly we passed him by! He did not seem at all to care: So, thinking we were safely past, We ventured to look back at last. O, dreadful blank!--_He was not there!_ He must have hid behind his chest: We did not stay to see the rest. But, as in reckless haste we ran, We came upon the tall thin man, Who called to us and waved his fan, And offered us his palanquin: He said we must not go alone To seek the ruby wishing-stone, Because the white-faced mandarin Would dog our steps for many a mile, And sit upon each purple stile Before we came to it, and smile And smile; his name was Creeping Sin. He played with children’s beating hearts, And stuck them full of poisoned darts And long green thorns that stabbed and stung: He’d watch until we tried to speak, Then thrust inside his pasty cheek His long, white, slimy tongue: And smile at everything we said; And sometimes pat us on the head, And say that we were very young: He was a cousin of the man Who said that there was no Japan. And night and day this Creeping Sin Would follow the path of the palanquin; Yet if we still were fain to touch The ruby, we must have no fear, Whatever we might see or hear, And the tall thin man would take us there; He did not fear that Sly One much, Except perhaps on a moonless night, Nor even then if the stars were bright. So, in the yellow palankeen We swung along in state between Twinkling domes of gold and green Through the rich bazaar, Where the cross-legged merchants sat, Old and almond-eyed and fat, Each upon a gorgeous mat, Each in a cymar; Each in crimson samite breeches, Watching his barbaric riches. Cherry blossom breathing sweet Whispered o’er the dim blue street Where with fierce uncertain feet Tawny pirates walk: All in belts and baggy blouses, Out of dreadful opium houses, Out of dens where Death carouses, Horribly they stalk; Girt with ataghan and dagger, Right across the road they swagger. And where the cherry orchards blow, We saw the maids of Miyako, Swaying softly to and fro Through the dimness of the dance: Like sweet thoughts that shine through dreams They glided, wreathing rosy gleams, With stately sounds of silken streams, And many a slim kohl-lidded glance; Then fluttered with tiny rose-bud feet To a soft _frou-frou_ and a rhythmic beat As the music shimmered, pursuit, retreat, “Hands across, retire, advance!” And again it changed and the glimmering throng Faded into a distant song. SONG _The maidens of Miyako_ _Dance in the sunset hours,_ _Deep in the sunset glow,_ _Under the cherry flowers._ _With dreamy hands of pearl_ _Floating like butterflies,_ _Dimly the dancers whirl_ _As the rose light dies;_ _And their floating gowns, their hair_ _Upbound with curious pins,_ _Fade thro’ the darkening air_ _With the dancing mandarins._ And then, as we went, the tall thin man Explained the manners of Old Japan; If you pitied a thing, you pretended to sneer; Yet if you were glad you ran to buy A captive pigeon and let it fly; And, if you were sad, you took a spear To wound yourself, for fear your pain Should quietly grow less again. And, again he said, if we wished to find The mystic City that enshrined The stone so few on earth had found, We must be very brave; it lay A hundred haunted leagues away, Past many a griffon-guarded ground, In depths of dark and curious art, Where passion-flowers enfold apart The Temple of the Flaming Heart, The City of the Secret Wound. About the fragrant fall of day We saw beside the twisted way A blue-domed tea-house, bossed with gold; Hungry and thirsty we entered in: How should we know what Creeping Sin Had breathed in that Emperor’s ear who sold His own dumb soul for an evil jewel To the earth-gods, blind and ugly and cruel?... We drank sweet tea as his tale was told, In a garden of blue chrysanthemums, While a drowsy swarming of gongs and drums Out of the sunset dreamily rolled. But, as the murmur nearer drew, A fat black bonze, in a robe of blue, Suddenly at the gate appeared; And close behind, with that evil grin, _Was it Creeping Sin, was it Creeping Sin?_ The bonze looked quietly down and sneered. Our guide! Was he sleeping? We could not wake him, However we tried to pinch and shake him! Nearer, nearer the tumult came, Till, as a glare of sound and flame, Blind from a terrible furnace door Blares, or the mouth of a dragon, blazed The seething gateway: deaf and dazed With the clanging and the wild uproar We stood; while a thousand oval eyes Gapped our fear with a sick surmise. Then, as the dead sea parted asunder, The clamour clove with a sound of thunder In two great billows; and all was quiet. Gaunt and black was the palankeen That came in dreadful state between The frozen waves of the wild-eyed riot Curling back from the breathless track Of the Nameless One who is never seen: The close drawn curtains were thick and black; But wizen and white was the tall thin man As he rose in his sleep: His eyes were closed, his lips were wan, He crouched like a leopard that dares not leap. The bearers halted: the tall thin man, Fearfully dreaming, waved his fan, With wizard fingers, to and fro; While, with a whimper of evil glee, The Nameless Emperor’s mad Moonshee Stepped in front of us: dark and slow Were the words of the doom that he dared not name; But, over the ground, as he spoke, there came Tiny circles of soft blue flame; Like ghosts of flowers they began to glow, And flow like a moonlit brook between Our feet and the terrible palankeen. But the Moonshee wrinkled his long thin eyes, And sneered, “Have you stolen the strength of the skies? Then pour before us a stream of pearl! Give us the pearl and the gold we know, And our hearts will be softened and let you go; But these are toys for a foolish girl-- These vanishing blossoms--what are they worth? They are not so heavy as dust and earth: Pour before us a stream of pearl!” Then, with a wild strange laugh, our guide Stretched his arms to the West and cried Once, and a song came over the sea; And all the blossoms of moon-soft fire Woke and breathed as a wind-swept lyre, And the garden surged into harmony; Till it seemed that the soul of the whole world sung, And every petal became a tongue To tell the thoughts of Eternity. But the Moonshee lifted his painted brows And stared at the gold on the blue tea-house: “Can you clothe your body with dreams?” he sneered; “If you taught us the truths that we always know Our heart might be softened and let you go: Can you tell us the length of a monkey’s beard, Or the weight of the gems on the Emperor’s fan, Or the number of parrots in Old Japan?” And again, with a wild strange laugh, our guide Looked at him; and he shrunk aside, Shrivelling like a flame-touched leaf; For the red-cross blossoms of soft blue fire Were growing and fluttering higher and higher, Shaking their petals out, sheaf by sheaf, Till with disks like shields and stems like towers Burned the host of the passion-flowers ... Had the Moonshee flown like a midnight thief? ... Yet a thing like a monkey, shrivelled and black, Chattered and danced as they forced him back. As the coward chatters for empty pride, In the face of a foe that he cannot but fear, It chattered and leapt from side to side, And its voice rang strangely upon the ear. As the cry of a wizard that dares not own Another’s brighter and mightier throne; As the wrath of a fool that rails aloud On the fire that burnt him; the brazen bray Clamoured and sang o’er the gaping crowd, And flapped like a gabbling goose away. THE CRY OF THE MAD MOONSHEE _If the blossoms were beans, I should know what it means-- This blaze, which I certainly cannot endure; It is evil, too, For its colour is blue, And the sense of the matter is quite obscure. Celestial truth Is the food of youth; But the music was dark as a moonless night._ _The facts in the song Were all of them wrong, And there was not a single sum done right; Tho’ a metaphysician amongst the crowd, In a voice that was notably deep and loud, Repeated, as fast as he was able, The whole of the multiplication table._ So the cry flapped off as a wild goose flies, And the stars came out in the trembling skies, And ever the mystic glory grew In the garden of blue chrysanthemums, Till there came a rumble of distant drums; And the multitude suddenly turned and flew. ... A dead ape lay where their feet had been ... And we called for the yellow palankeen, And the flowers divided and let us through. The black-barred moon was large and low When we came to the Forest of Ancient Woe; And over our heads the stars were bright. But through the forest the path we travelled Its phosphorescent aisle unravelled In one thin ribbon of dwindling light: And twice and thrice on the fainting track We paused to listen. The moon grew black, But the coolies’ faces glimmered white, As the wild woods echoed in dreadful chorus A laugh that came horribly hopping o’er us Like monstrous frogs thro’ the murky night. Then the tall thin man as we swung along Sang us an old enchanted song That lightened our hearts of their fearful load. But, e’en as the moonlit air grew sweet, We heard the pad of stealthy feet Dogging us down the thin white road; And the song grew weary again and harsh, And the black trees dripped like the fringe of a marsh, And a laugh crept out like a shadowy toad; And we knew it was neither ghoul nor djinn: _It was Creeping Sin! It was Creeping Sin!_ But we came to a bend, and the white moon glowed Like a gate at the end of the narrowing road Far away; and on either hand, As guards of a path to the heart’s desire, The strange tall blossoms of soft blue fire Stretched away thro’ that unknown land, League on league with their dwindling lane Down to the large low moon; and again There shimmered around us that mystical strain, In a tongue that it seemed we could understand. SONG _Hold by right and rule by fear_ _Till the slowly broadening sphere_ _Melting through the skies above_ _Merge into the sphere of love._ _Hold by might until you find_ _Might is powerless o’er the mind:_ _Hold by Truth until you see,_ _Though they bow before the wind,_ _Its towers can mock at liberty._ _Time, the seneschal, is blind;_ _Time is blind: and what are we?_ _Captives of Infinity,_ _Claiming through Truth’s prison bars_ _Kinship with the wandering stars._ O, who could tell the wild weird sights We saw in all the days and nights We travelled through those forests old. We saw the griffons on white cliffs, Among fantastic hieroglyphs, Guarding enormous heaps of gold: We saw the Ghastroi--curious men Who dwell, like tigers, in a den, And howl whene’er the moon is cold; They stripe themselves with red and black And ride upon the yellow Yak. Their dens are always ankle-deep With twisted knives, and in their sleep They often cut themselves; they say That if you wish to live in peace The surest way is not to cease Collecting knives; and never a day Can pass, unless they buy a few; And as their enemies buy them too They all avert the impending fray, And starve their children and their wives To buy the necessary knives. * * * * * The forest leapt with shadowy shapes As we came to the great black Tower of Apes: But we gave them purple figs and grapes In alabaster amphoras: We gave them curious kinds of fruit With betel nuts and orris-root, And then they let us pass: And when we reached the Tower of Snakes We gave them soft white honey-cakes, And warm sweet milk in bowls of brass: And on the hundredth eve we found The City of the Secret Wound. We saw the mystic blossoms blow Round the City, far below; Faintly in the sunset glow We saw the soft blue glory flow O’er many a golden garden gate: And o’er the tiny dark green seas Of tamarisks and tulip-trees, Domes like golden oranges Dream aloft elate. And clearer, clearer as we went, We heard from tower and battlement A whisper, like a warning, sent From watchers out of sight; And clearer, brighter, as we drew Close to the walls, we saw the blue Flashing of plumes where peacocks flew Thro’ zones of pearly light. On either side, a fat black bonze Guarded the gates of red-wrought bronze, Blazoned with blue sea-dragons And mouths of yawning flame; Down the road of dusty red, Though their brown feet ached and bled, Our coolies went with joyful tread: Like living fans the gates outspread And opened as we came. PART III THE MYSTIC RUBY The white moon dawned; the sunset died; And stars were trembling when we spied The rose-red temple of our dreams: Its lamp-lit gardens glimmered cool With many an onyx-paven pool, Amid soft sounds of flowing streams; Where star-shine shimmered through the white Tall fountain-shafts of crystal light In ever changing rainbow-gleams. Priests in flowing yellow robes Glided under rosy globes; Through the green pomegranate boughs Moonbeams poured their coloured rain; Roofs of sea-green porcelain Jutted o’er the rose-red house; Bells were hung beneath its eaves; Every wind that stirred the leaves Tinkled as tired water does. The temple had a low broad base Of black bright marble; all its face Was marble bright in rosy bloom; And where two sea-green pillars rose Deep in the flower-soft eave-shadows We saw, thro’ richly sparkling gloom, Wrought in marvellous years of old With bulls and peacocks bossed in gold, The doors of powdered lacquer loom. Quietly then the tall thin man, Holding his turquoise-tinted fan, Alighted from the palanquin; We followed: never painter dreamed Of how that dark rich temple gleamed With gules of jewelled gloom within; And as we wondered near the door A priest came o’er the polished floor In sandals of soft serpent-skin; His mitre shimmered bright and blue With pigeon’s breast-plumes. When he knew Our quest he stroked his broad white chin, And looked at us with slanting eyes And smiled; then through his deep disguise _We knew him! It was Creeping Sin!_ But cunningly he bowed his head Down on his gilded breast and said _Come_: and he led us through the dusk Of passages whose painted walls Gleamed with dark old festivals; Till where the gloom grew sweet with musk And incense, through a door of amber We came into a high-arched chamber. There on a throne of jasper sat A monstrous idol, black and fat; Thick rose-oil dropped upon its head: Drop by drop, heavy and sweet, Trickled down to its ebon feet Whereon the blood of goats was shed, And smeared around its perfumed knees In savage midnight mysteries. It wore about its bulging waist A belt of dark green bronze enchased With big, soft, cloudy pearls; its wrists Were clasped about with moony gems Gathered from dead kings’ diadems; Its throat was ringed with amethysts, And in its awful hand it held A softly smouldering emerald. Silkily murmured Creeping Sin, “This is the stone you wished to win!” “White Snake,” replied the tall thin man, “Show us the Ruby Stone, or I Will slay thee with my hands.” The sly Long eyelids of the priest began To slant aside; and then once more He led us through the fragrant door. And now along the passage walls Were painted hideous animals, With hooded eyes and cloven stings: In the incense that like shadowy hair Streamed over them they seemed to stir Their craggy claws and crooked wings. At last we saw strange moon-wreaths curl Around a deep, soft porch of pearl. O, what enchanter wove in dreams That chapel wild with shadowy gleams And prismy colours of the moon? Shrined like a rainbow in a mist Of flowers, the fretted amethyst Arches rose to a mystic tune; And never mortal art inlaid Those cloudy floors of sea-soft jade. There, in the midst, an idol rose White as the silent starlit snows On lonely Himalayan heights: Over its head the spikenard spilled Down to its feet, with myrrh distilled In distant, odorous Indian nights: It held before its ivory face A flaming yellow chrysoprase. O, silkily murmured Creeping Sin, “This is the stone you wished to win.” But in his ear the tall thin man _Whispered with slow, strange lips_--we knew Not what, but Creeping Sin went blue With fear; again his eyes began To slant aside; then through the porch He passed, and lit a tall, brown torch. Down a corridor dark as death, With beating hearts and bated breath We hurried; far away we heard A dreadful hissing, fierce as fire When rain begins to quench a pyre; And where the smoky torch-light flared Strange vermin beat their bat-like wings, And the wet walls dropped with slimy things. And darker, darker, wound the way, Beyond all gleams of night and day, And still that hideous hissing grew Louder and louder on our ears, And tortured us with eyeless fears; Then suddenly the gloom turned blue, And, in the wall, a rough rock cave Gaped, like a phosphorescent grave. And from the purple mist within There came a wild tumultuous din Of snakes that reared their heads and hissed As if a witch’s cauldron boiled; All round the door great serpents coiled, With eyes of glowing amethyst, Whose fierce blue flames began to slide Like shooting stars from side to side. Ah! with a sickly gasping grin And quivering eyelids, Creeping Sin Stole to the cave; but, suddenly, As through its glimmering mouth he passed, The serpents flashed and gripped him fast: He wriggled and gave one awful cry, Then all at once the cave was cleared; The snakes with their victim had disappeared. And fearlessly the tall thin man Opened his turquoise-tinted fan And entered; and the mists grew bright, And we saw that the cave was a diamond hall Lit with lamps for a festival. A myriad globes of coloured light Went gliding deep in its massy sides, Like the shimmering moons in the glassy tides Where a sea-king’s palace enchants the night. Gliding and flowing, a glory and wonder, Through each other, and over, and under, The lucent orbs of green and gold, Bright with sorrow or soft with sleep, In music through the glimmering deep, Over their secret axles rolled, And circled by the murmuring spheres We saw in a frame of frozen tears A mirror that made the blood run cold. For, when we came to it, we found It imaged everything around Except the face that gazed in it; And where the mirrored face should be A heart-shaped Ruby fierily Smouldered; and round the frame was writ, _Mystery: Time and Tide shall pass, I am the Wisdom Looking-Glass._ _This is the Ruby none can touch: Many have loved it overmuch; Its fathomless fires flutter and sigh, Being as images of the flame That shall make earth and heaven the same When the fire of the end reddens the sky, And the world consumes like a burning pall, Till where there is nothing, there is all._ So we looked up at the tall thin man And we saw that his face grew sad and wan: Tears were glistening in his eyes: At last, with a breaking sob, he bent His head upon his breast and went Swiftly away! With dreadful cries We rushed to the softly glimmering door And stared at the hideous corridor But his robe was gone as a dream that flies: Back to the glass in terror we came, And stared at the writing round the frame. We could not understand one word: And suddenly we thought we heard The hissing of the snakes again: How could we front them all alone? O, madly we clutched at the mirrored stone And wished we were back on the flowery plain: And swifter than thought and swift as fear The whole world flashed, and behold we were there. Yes; there was the port of Old Japan, With its twisted patterns, white and wan, Shining like a mottled fan Spread by the blue sea, faint and far; And far away we heard once more A sound of singing on the shore, Where boys in blue kimonos bore Roses in a golden jar: And we heard, where the cherry orchards blow, The serpent-charmers fluting low, And the song of the maidens of Miyako. And at our feet unbroken lay The glass that had whirled us thither away: And in the grass, among the flowers We sat and wished all sorts of things: O, we were wealthier than kings! We ruled the world for several hours! And then, it seemed, we knew not why, All the daisies began to die. We wished them alive again; but soon The trees all fled up towards the moon Like peacocks through the sunlit air: And the butterflies flapped into silver fish; And each wish spoiled another wish; Till we threw the glass down in despair; For, getting whatever you want to get, Is like drinking tea from a fishing net. At last we thought we’d wish once more That all should be as it was before; And then we’d shatter the glass, if we could; But just as the world grew right again, We heard a wanderer out on the plain Singing what none of us understood; Yet we thought that the world grew thrice more sweet And the meadows were blossoming under his feet. And we felt a grand and beautiful fear, For we knew that a marvellous thought drew near; So we kept the glass for a little while: And the skies grew deeper and twice as bright, And the seas grew soft as a flower of light, And the meadows rippled from stile to stile; And memories danced in a musical throng Thro’ the blossom that scented the wonderful song. SONG _We sailed across the silver seas And saw the sea-blue bowers, We saw the purple cherry trees, And all the foreign flowers, We travelled in a palanquin Beyond the caravan, And yet our hearts had never seen The Flower of Old Japan._ _The Flower above all other flowers, The Flower that never dies;_ _Before whose throne the scented hours Offer their sacrifice; The Flower that here on earth below Reveals the heavenly plan; But only little children know The Flower of Old Japan._ There, in the dim blue flowery plain We wished with the magic glass again To go to the Flower of the song’s desire: And o’er us the whole of the soft blue sky Flashed like fire as the world went by, And far beneath us the sea like fire Flashed in one swift blue brilliant stream, And the journey was done, like a change in a dream. PART IV THE END OF THE QUEST Like the dawn upon a dream Slowly through the scented gloom Crept once more the ruddy gleam O’er the friendly nursery room. There, before our waking eyes, Large and ghostly, white and dim, Dreamed the Flower that never dies, Opening wide its rosy rim. Spreading like a ghostly fan, Petals white as porcelain, There the Flower of Old Japan Told us we were home again; For a soft and curious light Suddenly was o’er it shed, And we saw it was a white English daisy, ringed with red. Slowly, as a wavering mist Waned the wonder out of sight, To a sigh of amethyst, To a wraith of scented light. Flower and magic glass had gone; Near the clutching fire we sat Dreaming, dreaming, all alone, Each upon a furry mat. While the firelight, red and clear, Fluttered in the black wet pane, It was very good to hear Howling winds and trotting rain. For we found at last we knew More than all our fancy planned, All the fairy tales were true, And home the heart of fairyland. EPILOGUE Carol, every violet has Heaven for a looking-glass! Every little valley lies Under many-clouded skies; Every little cottage stands Girt about with boundless lands; Every little glimmering pond Claims the mighty shores beyond; Shores no seaman ever hailed, Seas no ship has ever sailed. All the shores when day is done Fade into the setting sun, So the story tries to teach More than can be told in speech. Beauty is a fading flower, Truth is but a wizard’s tower, Where a solemn death-bell tolls, And a forest round it rolls. We have come by curious ways To the Light that holds the days; We have sought in haunts of fear For that all-enfolding sphere: And lo! it was not far, but near. We have found, O foolish-fond, The shore that has no shore beyond. Deep in every heart it lies With its untranscended skies; For what heaven should bend above Hearts that own the heaven of love? Carol, Carol, we have come Back to heaven, back to home. FOREST OF WILD THYME To HELEN, ROSIE and BEATRIX APOLOGIA Critics, you have been so kind, I would not have you think me blind To all the wisdom that you preach; Yet before I strictlier run In straiter lines of chiselled speech, Give me one more hour, just one Hour to hunt the fairy gleam That flutters through this childish dream. It mocks me as it flies, I know: All too soon the gleam will go; Yet I love it and shall love My dream that brooks no narrower bars Than bind the darkening heavens above, My Jack o’Lanthorn of the stars: Then, I’ll follow it no more, I’ll light the lamp: I’ll close the door. PRELUDE Hush! if you remember how we sailed to old Japan, Peterkin was with us then, our little brother Peterkin! Now we’ve lost him, so they say: I think the tall thin man Must have come and touched him with his curious twinkling fan And taken him away again, our merry little Peterkin; He’ll be frightened all alone; we’ll find him if we can; Come and look for Peterkin, poor little Peterkin. No one would believe us if we told them what we know, Or they wouldn’t grieve for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin; If they’d only watched us roaming through the streets of Miyako, And travelling in a palanquin where parents never go, And seen the golden gardens where we wandered once with Peterkin, And smelt the purple orchards where the cherry-blossoms blow, They wouldn’t mourn for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin. Put away your muskets, lay aside the drum, Hang it by the wooden sword we made for little Peterkin! He was once our trumpeter, now his bugle’s dumb, Pile your arms beneath it, for the owlet light is come, We’ll wander through the roses where we marched of old with Peterkin, We’ll search the summer sunset where the Hybla beehives hum, And--if we meet a fairy there--we’ll ask for news of Peterkin. He was once our cabin-boy and cooked the sweets for tea; And O, we’ve sailed around the world with laughing little Peterkin; From nursery floor to pantry door we’ve roamed the mighty sea, And come to port below the stairs in distant Caribee, But wheresoe’er we sailed we took our little lubber Peterkin, Because his wide grey eyes believed much more than ours could see, And so we liked our Peterkin, our trusty little Peterkin. Peterkin, Peterkin, I think if you came back The captain of our host to-day should be the bugler Peterkin, And he should lead our smugglers up that steep and narrow track, A band of noble brigands, bearing each a mighty pack Crammed with lace and jewels to the secret cave of Peterkin, And he should wear the biggest boots and make his pistol crack,-- The Spanish cloak, the velvet mask, we’d give them all to Peterkin. Come, my brother pirates, I am tired of play; Come and look for Peterkin, little brother Peterkin, Our merry little comrade that the fairies took away, For people think we’ve lost him, and when we come to say Our good-night prayers to mother, if we pray for little Peterkin Her eyes are very sorrowful, she turns her head away. Come and look for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin. God bless little Peterkin, wherever he may be! Come and look for Peterkin, lonely little Peterkin: I wonder if they’ve taken him again across the sea From the town of Wonder-Wander and the Amfalula tree To the land of many marvels where we roamed of old with Peterkin, The land of blue pagodas and the flowery fields of tea! Come and look for Peterkin, poor little Peterkin. PART I THE SPLENDID SECRET Now father stood engaged in talk With mother on that narrow walk Between the laurels (where we play At Red-skins lurking for their prey) And the grey old wall of roses Where the Persian kitten dozes And the sunlight sleeps upon Crannies of the crumbling stone --So hot it is you scarce can bear Your naked hand upon it there, Though there luxuriating in heat With a slow and gorgeous beat White-winged currant-moths display Their spots of black and gold all day.-- Well, since we greatly wished to know Whether we too might some day go Where little Peterkin had gone Without one word and all alone, We crept up through the laurels there Hoping that we might overhear The splendid secret, darkly great, Of Peterkin’s mysterious fate; And on what high adventure bound He left our pleasant garden-ground, Whether for old Japan once more He voyaged from the dim blue shore, Or whether he set out to run By candle-light to Babylon. We just missed something father said About a young prince that was dead, A little warrior that had fought And failed: how hopes were brought to nought He said, and mortals made to bow Before the Juggernaut of Death, And all the world was darker now, For Time’s grey lips and icy breath Had blown out all the enchanted lights That burned in Love’s Arabian nights; And now he could not understand Mother’s mystic fairy-land, “Land of the dead, poor fairy-tale,” He murmured, and her face grew pale, And then with great soft shining eyes She leant to him--she looked so wise-- And, with her cheek against his cheek, We heard her, ah so softly, speak. “Husband, there was a happy day, Long ago, in love’s young May, When with a wild-flower in your hand You echoed that dead poet’s cry-- ‘_Little flower, but if I could understand!_’ And you saw it had roots in the depths of the sky, And there in that smallest bud lay furled The secret and meaning of all the world.” He shook his head and then he tried To kiss her, but she only cried And turned her face away and said, “You come between me and my dead! His soul is near me, night and day, But you would drive it far away; And you shall never kiss me now Until you lift that brave old brow Of faith I know so well; or else Refute the tale the skylark tells, Tarnish the glory of that May, Explain the Smallest Flower away.” And still he said, “Poor fairy-tales, How terribly their starlight pales Before the solemn sun of truth That rises o’er the grave of youth!” “Is heaven a fairy-tale?” she said,-- And once again he shook his head; And yet we ne’er could understand Why heaven should _not_ be fairy-land, A part of heaven at least, and why The thought of it made mother cry, And why they went away so sad, And father still quite unforgiven, For what could children be but glad To find a fairy-land in heaven? And as we talked it o’er we found Our brains were really spinning round; But Dick, our eldest, late returned From school, by all the lore he’d learned Declared that we should seek the lost Smallest Flower at any cost. For, since within its leaves lay furled The secret of the whole wide world, He thought that we might learn therein The whereabouts of Peterkin; And, if we found the Flower, we knew Father would be forgiven, too; And mother’s kiss atone for all The quarrel by the rose-hung wall; We knew not how, we knew not why, But Dick it was who bade us try, Dick made it all seem plain and clear, And Dick it is who helps us here To tell this tale of fairy-land In words we scarce can understand. For ere another golden hour Had passed, our anxious parents found We’d left the scented garden-ground To seek--the Smallest Flower. PART II THE FIRST DISCOVERY Oh, grown-ups cannot understand And grown-ups never will, How short’s the way to fairy-land Across the purple hill: They smile: their smile is very bland, Their eyes are wise and chill; And yet--at just a child’s command-- The world’s an Eden still. Under the cloudy lilac-tree, Out at the garden-gate, We stole, a little band of three, To tempt our fairy fate. There was no human eye to see, No voice to bid us wait; The gardener had gone home to tea, The hour was very late. I wonder if you’ve ever dreamed, In summer’s noonday sleep, Of what the thyme and heather seemed To ladybirds that creep Like little crimson shimmering gems Between the tiny twisted stems Of fairy forests deep; And what it looks like as they pass Through jungles of the golden grass. If you could suddenly become As small a thing as they, A midget-child, a new Tom Thumb, A little gauze-winged fay, Oh then, as through the mighty shades Of wild thyme woods and violet glades You groped your forest-way, How fraught each fragrant bough would be With dark o’erhanging mystery. How high the forest aisles would loom, What wondrous wings would beat Through gloamings loaded with perfume In many a rich retreat, While trees like purple censers bowed And swung beneath a swooning cloud Mysteriously sweet, Where flowers that haunt no mortal clime Burden the Forest of Wild Thyme. We’d watched the bats and beetles flit Through sunset-coloured air The night that we discovered it And all the heavens were bare: We’d seen the colours melt and pass Like silent ghosts across the grass To sleep--our hearts knew where; And so we rose, and hand in hand We sought the gates of fairy-land. For Peterkin, oh Peterkin, The cry was in our ears, A fairy clamour, clear and thin From lands beyond the years; A wistful note, a dying fall As of the fairy bugle-call Some dreamful changeling hears, And pines within his mortal home Once more through fairy-land to roam. We left behind the pleasant row Of cottage window-panes, The village inn’s red-curtained glow, The lovers in the lanes; And stout of heart and strong of will We climbed the purple perfumed hill, And hummed the sweet refrains Of fairy tunes the tall thin man Taught us of old in Old Japan. So by the tall wide-barred church-gate Through which we all could pass We came to where that curious plate, That foolish plate of brass, Said Peterkin was fast asleep Beneath a cold and ugly heap Of earth and stones and grass. It was a splendid place for play, That churchyard, on a summer’s day; A splendid place for hide-and-seek Between the grey old stones; Where even grown-ups used to speak In awestruck whispering tones; And here and there the grass ran wild In jungles for the creeping child, And there were elfin zones Of twisted flowers and words in rhyme And great sweet cushions of wild thyme. So in a wild thyme snuggery there We stayed awhile to rest; A bell was calling folk to prayer: One star was in the West: The cottage lights grew far away, The whole sky seemed to waver and sway Above our fragrant nest; And from a distant dreamland moon Once more we heard that fairy tune: Why, mother once had sung it us When, ere we went to bed, She told the tale of Pyramus, How Thisbe found him dead And mourned his eyes as green as leeks, His cherry nose, his cowslip cheeks. That tune would oft around us float Since on a golden noon We saw the play that Shakespeare wrote Of Lion, Wall, and Moon; Ah, hark--the ancient fairy theme-- _Following darkness like a dream!_ The very song Will Shakespeare sang, The music that through Sherwood rang And Arden and that forest glade Where Hermie and Lysander strayed, And Puck cried out with impish glee, _Lord, what fools these mortals be_! Though the masquerade was mute Of Quince and Snout and Snug and Flute, And Bottom with his donkey’s head Decked with roses, white and red, Though the fairies had forsaken Sherwood now and faintly shaken The forest-scents from off their feet, Yet from some divine retreat Came the music, sweet and clear, To hang upon the raptured ear With the free unfettered sway Of blossoms in the moon of May. Hark! the luscious fluttering Of flower-soft words that kiss and cling, And part again with sweet farewells, And rhyme and chime like fairy-bells. “_I know a bank where the wild thyme blows Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine._” Out of the undiscovered land So sweetly rang the song, We dreamed we wandered, hand in hand, The fragrant aisles along, Where long ago had gone to dwell In some enchanted distant dell The outlawed fairy throng When out of Sherwood’s wildest glen They sank, forsaking mortal men. And as we dreamed, the shadowy ground Seemed gradually to swell; And a strange forest rose around, But how--we could not tell-- Purple against a rose-red sky The big boughs brooded silently: Far off we heard a bell; And, suddenly, a great red light Smouldered before our startled sight. Then came a cry, a fiercer flash, And down between the trees We saw great crimson figures crash, Wild-eyed monstrosities; Great dragon-shapes that breathed a flame From roaring nostrils as they came: We sank upon our knees; And looming o’er us, ten yards high, Like battleships they thundered by. And then, as down that mighty dell We followed, faint with fear, We understood the tolling bell That called the monsters there; For right in front we saw a house Woven of wild mysterious boughs Bursting out everywhere In crimson flames, and with a shout The monsters rushed to put it out. And, in a flash, the truth was ours; And there we knew--we knew-- The meaning of those trees like flowers, Those boughs of rose and blue, And from the world we’d left above A voice came crooning like a dove To prove the dream was true: And this--we knew it by the rhyme Must be--the Forest of Wild Thyme. For out of the mystical rose-red dome Of heaven the voice came murmuring down: _Oh, Ladybird, Ladybird, fly away home; Your house is on fire and your children are gone._ We knew, we knew it by the rhyme, Though _we_ seemed, after all, No tinier, yet the sweet wild thyme Towered like a forest tall All round us; oh, we knew not how, And yet--we knew those monsters now: Our dream’s divine recall Had dwarfed us, as with magic words; The dragons were but ladybirds! And all around us as we gazed, Half glad, half frightened, all amazed, The scented clouds of purple smoke In lurid gleams of crimson broke; And o’er our heads the huge black trees Obscured the sky’s red mysteries; While here and there gigantic wings Beat o’er us, and great scaly things Fold over monstrous leathern fold Out of the smouldering copses rolled; And eyes like blood-red pits of flame From many a forest-cavern came To glare across the blazing glade, Till, with the sudden thought dismayed, We wondered if we e’er should find The mortal home we left behind: Fear clutched us in a grisly grasp, We gave one wild and white-lipped gasp, Then turned and ran, with streaming hair, Away, away, and anywhere! And hurry-skurry, heart and heel and hand, we tore along, And still our flying feet kept time and pattered on for Peterkin, For Peterkin, oh Peterkin, it made a kind of song To prove the road was right although it seemed so dark and wrong, As through the desperate woods we plunged and ploughed for little Peterkin, Where many a hidden jungle-beast made noises like a gong That rolled and roared and rumbled as we rushed along to Peterkin. Peterkin, Peterkin, if you could only hear And answer us; one little word from little lonely Peterkin To take and comfort father, he is sitting in his chair In the library: he’s listening for your footstep on the stair And your patter down the passage, he can only think of Peterkin: Come back, come back to father, for to-day he’d let us tear His newest book to make a paper-boat for little Peterkin. PART III THE HIDEOUS HERMIT Ah, what wonders round us rose When we dared to pause and look, Curious things that seemed all toes, Goblins from a picture-book; Ants like witches, four feet high, Waving all their skinny arms, Glared at us and wandered by, Muttering their ancestral charms. Stately forms in green and gold Armour strutted through the glades, Just as Hamlet’s ghost, we’re told, Mooned among the midnight shades; Once a sort of devil came Scattering broken trees about, Winged with leather, eyed with flame,-- He was but a moth, no doubt. Here and there, above us clomb Feathery clumps of palm on high: Those were ferns, of course, but some Really seemed to touch the sky; Yes; and down one fragrant glade, Listening as we onward stole, Half delighted, half afraid, _Dong_, we heard the hare-bells toll! Something told us what that gleam Down the glen was brooding o’er; Something told us in a dream What the bells were tolling for! Something told us there was fear, Horror, peril, on our way! Was it far or was it near? _Near_, we heard the night-wind say. _Toll_, the music reeled and pealed Through the vast and sombre trees, Where a rosy light revealed Dimmer, sweeter mysteries; And, like petals of the rose, Fairy fans in beauty beat, Light in light--ah, what were those Rhymes we heard the night repeat? _Toll_, a dream within a dream, Up an aisle of rose and blue, Up the music’s perfumed stream Came the words, and then we knew, Knew that in that distant glen Once again the case was tried, Hark!--_Who killed Cock Robin, then?_ And a tiny voice replied, “_I_ _killed_ _Cock_ _Robin!_” “_I!_ And who are _You_, sir, pray?” Growled a voice that froze our marrow: “Who!” we heard the murderer say, “Lord, sir, I’m the famous Sparrow, And this ’ere’s my bow and arrow! “_I_ _killed_ _Cock_ _Robin!_” Then, with one great indrawn breath, Such a sighin’ and a sobbin’ Rose all round us for the death Of poor, poor Cock Robin, Oh, we couldn’t bear to wait Even to hear the murderer’s fate, Which we’d often wished to know Sitting in the fireside glow And with hot revengeful looks Searched for in the nursery-books; For the Robin and the Wren Are such friends to mortal men, Such dear friends to mortal men! _Toll_; and through the woods once more Stole we, drenched with fragrant dew: _Toll_; the hare-bell’s burden bore Deeper meanings than we knew: Still it told us there was fear, Horror, peril on our way! Was it far or was it near? _Near_, we heard the night-wind say! _Near_; and once or twice we saw Something like a monstrous eye, Something like a hideous claw Steal between us and the sky: Still we hummed a dauntless tune Trying to think such things might be Glimpses of the fairy moon Hiding in some hairy tree. Yet around us as we went Through the glades of rose and blue Sweetness with the horror blent Wonder-wild in scent and hue: Here Aladdin’s cavern yawned, Jewelled thick with gorgeous dyes; There a head of clover dawned Like a cloud in eastern skies. Hills of topaz, lakes of dew, Fairy cliffs of crystal sheen Passed we; and the forest’s blue Sea of branches tossed between: Once we saw a gryphon make One soft iris as it passed Like the curving meteor’s wake O’er the forest, far and fast. Winged with purple, breathing flame, Crimson-eyed we saw him go, Where--ah! could it be the same Cockchafer we used to know?-- Valley-lilies overhead, High aloof in clustered spray, Far through heaven their splendour spread, Glimmering like the Milky Way. Mammoths father calls “extinct,” Creatures that the cave-men feared, Through that forest walked and blinked, Through that jungle crawled and leered; Beasts no Nimrod ever knew, Woolly bears of black and red; Crocodiles, we wondered who Ever dared to see _them_ fed. Were they lizards? If they were, They could swallow _us_ with ease; But they slumbered quietly there In among the mighty trees; Red and silver, blue and green, Played the moonlight on their scales; Golden eyes they had, and lean Crookéd legs with cruel nails. Yet again, oh, faint and far, Came the shadow of a cry, Like the calling of a star To its brother in the sky; Like an echo in a cave Where young mermen sound their shells, Like the wind across a grave Bright with scent of lily-bells. Like a fairy hunter’s horn Sounding in some purple glen Sweet revelly to the morn And the fairy quest again: Then, all round it surged a song We could never understand Though it lingered with us long, And it seemed so sad and grand. SONG _Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn, Summon the day of deliverance in: We are weary of bearing the burden of scorn_ _As we yearn for the home that we never shall win; For here there is weeping and sorrow and sin, And the poor and the weak are a spoil for the strong! Ah! when shall the song of the ransomed begin? The world is grown weary with waiting so long._ _Little Boy Blue, you are gallant and brave, There was never a doubt in those clear bright eyes; Come, challenge the grim dark Gates of the Grave As the skylark sings to those infinite skies! This world is a dream, say the old and the wise, And its rainbows arise o’er the false and the true; But the mists of the morning are made of our sighs,--_ _Ah, shatter them, scatter them, Little Boy Blue!_ _Little Boy Blue, if the child-heart knows, Sound but a note as a little one may; And the thorns of the desert shall bloom with the rose, And the Healer shall wipe all tears away; Little Boy Blue, we are all astray, The sheep’s in the meadow, the cow’s in the corn, Ah, set the world right, as a little one may; Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn!_ Yes; and there between the trees Circled with a misty gleam Like the light a mourner sees Round an angel in a dream; Was it he? oh, brave and slim, Straight and clad in æry blue, Lifting to his lips the dim Golden horn? We never knew! Never; for a witch’s hair Flooded all the moonlit sky, And he vanished, then and there, In the twinkling of an eye: Just as either boyish cheek Puffed to set the world aright, Ere the golden horn could speak Round him flowed the purple night. * * * * * At last we came to a round black road That tunnelled through the woods and showed, Or so we thought, a good clear way Back to the upper lands of day; Great silken cables overhead In many a mighty mesh were spread Netting the rounded arch, no doubt To keep the weight of leafage out. And, as the tunnel narrowed down So thick and close the cords had grown No leaf could through their meshes stray, And the faint moonlight died away; Only a strange grey glimmer shone To guide our weary footsteps on, Until, tired out, we stood before The end, a great grey silken door. Then from out a weird old wicket, overgrown with shaggy hair Like a weird and wicked eyebrow round a weird and wicked eye, Two great eyeballs and a beard For one ghastly moment peered At our faces with a sudden stealthy stare: Then the door was opened wide, And a hideous hermit cried With a shy and soothing smile from out his lair, _Won’t you walk into my parlour? I can make you cosy there!_ And we couldn’t quite remember where we’d heard that phrase before, As the great grey-bearded ogre stood beside his open door; But an echo seemed to answer from a land beyond the sky-- _Won’t you walk into my parlour? said the spider to the fly!_ Then we looked a little closer at the ogre as he stood With his great red eyeballs glowing like two torches in a wood, And his mighty speckled belly and his dreadful clutching claws, And his nose--a horny parrot’s beak, his whiskers and his jaws; Yet he seemed so sympathetic, and we saw two tears descend, As he murmured, “I’m so ugly, but I’ve lost my dearest friend! I tell you most lymphatic’ly, I’ve yearnings in my soul,”-- And right along his parrot’s beak we saw the tear-drops roll; He’s an _arrant sentimentalist_, we heard a distant sigh, _Won’t you weep upon my bosom? said the spider to the fly._ “If you’d dreamed my dreams of beauty, if you’d seen my works of art, If you’d felt the cruel hunger that is gnawing at my heart, And the grief that never leaves me and the love I can’t forget, (For I loved with all the letters in the Chinese alphabet!) Oh, you’d all come in to comfort me: you ought to help the weak; And I’m full of melting moments; and--I--know--the--thing--you--seek!” And the haunting echo answered, _Well, I’m sure you ought to try; There’s a duty to one’s neighbour, said the spider to the fly._ So we walked into his parlour Though a gleam was in his eye; And it _was_ the prettiest parlour That ever we did spy! But we saw by the uncertain Misty light, shot through with gleams Of many a silken curtain Broidered o’er with dreadful dreams, That he locked the door behind us! So we stood with bated breath In a silence deep as death. There were scarlet gleams and crimson In the curious foggy grey, Like the blood-red light that swims on Old canals at fall of day, Where the smoke of some great city loops and droops in gorgeous veils Round the heavy purple barges’ tawny sails. Were those creatures gagged and muffled See--there--by that severed head? Was it but a breeze that ruffled Those dark curtains, splashed with red, Ruffled the dark figures on them, made them moan like things in pain? How we wished that we were safe at home again. * * * * * “Oh, we want to hear of Peterkin; good sir, you say you know; Won’t you tell us, won’t you put us in the way we want to go?” So we pleaded, for he seemed so very full of sighs and tears That we couldn’t doubt his kindness, and we smothered all our fears; But he said, “You must be crazy if you come to me for help; Why should I desire to send you to your horrid little whelp?” And again the foolish echo made a far-away reply, _Oh, don’t come to me for comfort, Pray don’t look to me for comfort, Heavens! you mustn’t be so selfish, said the spider to the fly._ “Still, when the King of Scotland, so to speak, was in a hole, He was aided by my brother: it’s a story to console The convict on the treadmill and the infant with a sum, For it teaches you to try again until your kingdom’s come! The monarch dawdled in that hole for centuries of time Until my own twin-brother rose and showed him how to climb: He showed him how to swing and sway upon a tiny thread Across a mighty precipice, and light upon his head Without a single fracture and without a single pain If he only did it frequently and tried and tried again:” And once again the whisper like a moral wandered by, _Perseverance is a virtue, said the spider to the fly._ Then he moaned, “My heart is hungry; but I fear I cannot eat, (Of course I speak entirely now of spiritual meat!) For I only fed an hour ago, but if we calmly sat While I told you all my troubles in a confidential chat It would give me _such_ an appetite to hear you sympathise, And I should sleep the better--see, the tears are in my eyes! Dead yearnings are such dreadful things, let’s keep ’em all alive,-- Let’s sit and talk awhile, my dears; we’ll dine, I think, at five.” And he brought his chair beside us in his most engaging style, And began to tell his story with a melancholy smile.-- “You remember Miss Muffet Who sat on a tuffet Partaking of curds and whey; Well, _I_ am the spider Who sat down beside her And frightened Miss Muffet away! There was nothing against her! An elderly spinster Were such a grammatical mate For a spider and spinner, I swore I would win her, I knew I had met with my fate! That love was the purest And strongest and surest I’d felt since my first thread was spun; I know I’m a bogey, But _she’s_ an old fogey, So why in the world did she run? When Bruce was in trouble, A spider, my double, Encouraged him greatly, they say! Now, _why_ should the spider Who sat down beside her Have frightened Miss Muffet away?” He seemed to have much more to tell, But we could scarce be listening well, Although we tried with all our might To look attentive and polite; For still afar we heard the thin Clear fairy-call to Peterkin; Clear as a skylark’s mounting song It drew our wandering thoughts along. Afar, it seemed, yet, ah, so nigh, Deep in our dreams it scaled the sky, In captive dreams that brooked no bars It touched the love that moves the stars, And with sweet music’s golden tether It bound our hearts and heaven together. SONG _Wake, arise, the lake, the skies_ _Fade into the faery day;_ _Come and sing before our king,_ _Heed not Time, the dotard grey;_ _Time has given his crown to heaven--Ah,_ _how long? Awake, away!_ Then, as the Hermit rambled on In one long listless monotone, We heard a wild and mournful groan Come rumbling down the tunnelled way; A voice, an awful mournful bray, Singing some old funereal lay; Then solemn footsteps, muffled, dull, Approached as if they trod on wool, And as they nearer, nearer drew, We saw our Host was listening too! His bulging eyes began to glow Like great red match-heads rubbed at night, And then he stole with a grim “O-ho!” To that grey old wicket where, out of sight, Blandly rubbing his hands and humming, He could see, at one glance, whatever was coming. He had never been so jubilant or frolicsome before, As he scurried on his cruel hairy crutches to the door; And flung it open wide And most hospitably cried, “Won’t you walk into my parlour? I’ve some little friends to tea,-- They’ll be highly entertaining to a man of sympathy, Such as you yourself must be!” Then the man, for so he seemed, (Doubtless one who’d lost his way And was dwarfed as we had been!) In his ancient suit of black, Black upon the verge of green, Entered like a ghost that dreamed Sadly of some bygone day; And he never ceased to sing In that awful mournful bray. The door closed behind his back; He walked round us in a ring, And we hoped that he might free us, But his tears appeared to blind him, For he didn’t seem to see us, And the Hermit crept behind him Like a cat about to spring. And the song he sang was this; And his nose looked very grand As he sang it, with a bliss Which we could not understand; For his voice was very sad, While his nose was proud and glad. _Rain, April, rain, thy sunny, sunny tears!_ _Through the black boughs the robe of Spring appears,_ _Yet, for the ghosts of all the bygone years,_ _Rain, April, rain._ _Rain, April, rain; the rose will soon be glad;_ _Spring will rejoice, a Spring I, too, have had;_ _A little while, till I no more be sad,_ _Rain, April, rain._ And then the spider sprang Before we could breathe or speak, And one great scream out-rang As the terrible horny beak Crunched into the Sad Man’s head, And the terrible hairy claws Clutched him around his middle; And he opened his lantern-jaws, And he gave one twist, one twiddle, One kick, and his sorrow was dead. And there, as he sucked his bleeding prey, The spider leered at us--“You will do, My sweet little dears, for another day; But this is the sort I like; huh! huh!” And there we stood, in frozen fear, Whiter than death, With bated breath; And lo! as we thought of Peterkin, Father and home and Peterkin, Once more that music clear and thin, Clear as a skylark’s mounting song, But nearer now, more sweet, more strong, Drew all our wandering thoughts along, Until it seemed, a mystic sea Of hidden delight and harmony Began to ripple and rise all round The prison where our hearts lay bound; And from sweet heaven’s most rosy rim There swelled a distant marching hymn Which made the hideous Hermit pause And listen with lank down-dropt jaws, Till, with great bulging eyes of fear, He sought the wicket again to peer Along the tunnel, as like sweet rain We heard the still approaching strain, And, under it, the rhythmic beat Of multitudinous marching feet. Nearer, nearer, they rippled and rang, And this was the marching song they sang:-- SONG _A fairy band are we_ _In fairy-land:_ _Singing march we, hand in hand;_ _Singing, singing all day long:_ _(Some folk never heard a fairy-song!)_ _Singing, singing,_ _When the merry thrush is swinging_ _On a springing spray;_ _Or when the witch that lives in gloomy caves_ _And creeps by night among the graves_ _Calls a cloud across the day;_ _Cease we never our fairy song,_ _March we ever, along, along,_ _Down the dale, or up the hill,_ _Singing, singing still._ And suddenly the Hermit turned and ran with all his might Through the back-door of his parlour as we thought of little Peterkin; And the great grey roof was shattered by a shower of rosy light, And the spider-house went floating, torn and tattered through the night In a flight of prismy streamers, as a shout went up for Peterkin; And lo, the glistening fairy-host stood there arrayed for fight, In arms of rose and green and gold, to lead us on to Peterkin. And all around us, rippling like a pearl and opal sea, The host of fairy faces winked a kindly hint of Peterkin; And all around the rosy glade a laugh of fairy glee Watched spider-streamers floating up from fragrant tree to tree Till the moonlight caught the gossamers and, oh we wished for Peterkin! Each rope became a rainbow; but it made us ache to see Such a fairy forest-pomp without explaining it to Peterkin. Then all the glittering crowd With a courtly gesture bowed Like a rosy jewelled cloud Round a flame, As the King of Fairy-land, Very dignified and grand, Stepped forward to demand Whence we came. He’d a cloak of gold and green Such as caterpillars spin, For the fairy ways, I ween, Are very frugal; He’d a bow that he had borne Since the crimson Eden morn, And a honeysuckle horn For his bugle. So we told our tale of faëry to the King of Fairy-land, And asked if he could let us know the latest news of Peterkin; And he turned him with a courtly smile and waved his jewelled wand And cried, _Pease-blossom, Mustard-seed! You know the old command;_ _Well; these are little children; you must lead them on to Peterkin._ Then he knelt, the King of Faëry knelt; his eyes were great and grand As he took our hands and kissed them, saying, _Father loves your Peterkin_! So out they sprang, on either side, A light fantastic fairy guide, To lead us to the land unknown Where little Peterkin was gone; And, as we went with timid pace, We saw that every fairy face In all that moonlit host was wet With tears: we never shall forget The mystic hush that seemed to fade Away like sound, as down the glade We passed beyond their zone of light. Then through the forest’s purple night We trotted, at a pleasant speed, With gay Pease-blossom and Mustard-seed. PART IV PEASE-BLOSSOM AND MUSTARD-SEED Shyly we surveyed our guides As through the gloomy woods we went In the light that the straggling moonbeams lent: We envied them their easy strides! Pease-blossom in his crimson cap And delicate suit of rose-leaf green, His crimson sash and his jewelled dagger, Strutted along with an elegant swagger Which showed that he didn’t care one rap For anything less than a Fairy Queen: His eyes were deep like the eyes of a poet, Although his crisp and curly hair Certainly didn’t seem to show it! While Mustard-seed was a devil-may-care Epigrammatic and pungent fellow Clad in a splendid suit of yellow, With emerald stars on his glittering breast And eyes that shone with a diamond light: They made you feel sure it would always be best To tell him the truth: he was not perhaps _quite_ So polite as Pease-blossom, but then who could be _Quite_ such a debonair fairy as he? We never could tell you one-half that we heard And saw on that journey. For instance, a bird Ten times as big as an elephant stood By the side of a nest like a great thick wood: The clouds in glimmering wreaths were spread Behind its vast and shadowy head Which rolled at us trembling below. (Its eyes Were like great black moons in those pearl-pale skies.) And we feared he might take us, perhaps, for a worm. But he ruffled his breast with the sound of a storm, And snuggled his head with a careless disdain Under his huge hunched wing again; And Mustard-seed said, as we stole thro’ the dark, There was nothing to fear: it was only a Lark! And so he cheered the way along With many a neat little epigram, While dear Pease-blossom before him swam On a billow of lovely moonlit song, Telling us why they had left their home In Sherwood, and had hither come To dwell in this magical scented clime, This dim old Forest of sweet Wild Thyme. “Men toil,” he said, “from morn till night With bleeding hands and blinded sight For gold, more gold! They have betrayed The trust that in their souls was laid; Their fairy birthright they have sold For little disks of mortal gold; And now they cannot even see The gold upon the greenwood tree, The wealth of coloured lights that pass In soft gradations through the grass, The riches of the love untold That wakes the day from grey to gold; And howsoe’er the moonlight weaves Magic webs among the leaves Englishmen care little now For elves beneath the hawthorn bough: Nor if Robin should return Dare they of an outlaw learn; For them the Smallest Flower is furled, Mute is the music of the world; And unbelief has driven away Beauty from the blossomed spray.” Then Mustard-seed with diamond eyes Taught us to be laughter-wise, And he showed us how that Time Is much less powerful than a rhyme; And that Space is but a dream; “For look,” he said, with eyes agleam, “Now you are become so small You think the Thyme a forest tall; But underneath your feet you see A world of wilder mystery Where, if you were smaller yet, You would just as soon forget This forest, which you’d leave above As you have left the home you love! For, since the Thyme you used to know Seems a forest here below, What if you should sink again And find there stretched a mighty plain Between each grass-blade and the next? You’d think till you were quite perplexed! Especially if all the flowers That lit the sweet Thyme-forest bowers Were in that wild transcendent change Turned to Temples, great and strange, With many a pillared portal high And domes that swelled against the sky! How foolish, then, you will agree, Are those who think that all must see The world alike, or those who scorn Another who, perchance, was born Where--in a different dream from theirs-- What they call sins to him are prayers! We cannot judge; we cannot know; All things mingle; all things flow; There’s only one thing constant here-- Love--that untranscended sphere: Love, that while all ages run Holds the wheeling worlds in one; Love that, as your sages tell, Soars to heaven and sinks to hell.” Even as he spoke, we seemed to grow Smaller, the Thyme trees seemed to go Farther away from us: new dreams Flashed out on us with mystic gleams Of mighty Temple-domes: deep awe Held us all breathless as we saw A carven portal glimmering out Between new flowers that put to rout Our other fancies: in sweet fear We tiptoed past, and seemed to hear A sound of singing from within That told our souls of Peterkin: Our thoughts of _him_ were still the same Howe’er the shadows went and came! So, on we wandered, hand in hand, And all the world was fairy-land. * * * * * And as we went we seemed to hear Surging up from distant dells A solemn music, soft and clear As if a field of lily-bells Were tolling all together, sweet But sad and low and keeping time To multitudinous marching feet With a slow funereal beat And a deep harmonious chime That told us by its dark refrain The reason fairies suffered pain. SONG Bear her along Keep ye your song Tender and sweet and low: Fairies must die! Ask ye not why Ye that have hurt her so. _Passing away--flower from the spray! Colour and light from the leaf! Soon, soon will the year shed its bloom on her bier, and the dust of its dreams on our grief._ Men upon earth Bring us to birth Gently at even and morn! When as brother and brother They greet one another And smile--then a fairy is born! But at each cruel word Upon earth that is heard, Each deed of unkindness or hate, Some fairy must pass From the games in the grass And steal thro’ the terrible Gate. _Passing away--flower from the spray! Colour and light from the leaf! Soon, soon will the year shed its bloom on her bier, and the dust of its dreams on our grief._ If ye knew, if ye knew All the wrong that ye do By the thought that ye harbour alone, How the face of some fairy Grows wistful and weary And the heart in her cold as a stone! Ah, she was born Blithe as the morn Under an April sky, Born of the greeting Of two lovers meeting! They parted, and so she must die! _Passing away--flower from the spray! Colour and light from the leaf!_ _Soon, soon will the year shed its bloom on her bier, and the dust of its dreams on our grief._ Cradled in blisses, Yea, born of your kisses, Oh, ye lovers that met by the moon, She would not have cried In the darkness and died If ye had not forgotten so soon! Cruel mortals, they say, Live for ever and aye, And they pray in the dark on their knees! But the flowers that are fled And the loves that are dead, What heaven takes pity on these? _Bear her along--singing your song--tender and sweet and low!_ _Fairies must die! Ask ye not why--ye that have hurt her so._ Passing away-- Flower from the spray! Colour and light from the leaf! Soon, soon will the year Shed its bloom on her bier And the dust of its dreams on our grief! * * * * * Then we came through a glittering crystal grot By a path like a pale moonbeam, And a broad blue bridge of Forget-me-not Over a shimmering stream, To where, through the deep blue dusk, a gleam Rose like the soul of the setting sun; A sunset breaking through the earth, A crimson sea of the poppies of dream, Deep as the sleep that gave them birth In the night where all earthly dreams are done. And then, like a pearl-pale porch of the moon, Faint and sweet as a starlit shrine, Over the gloom Of the crimson bloom We saw the Gates of Ivory shine; And, lulled and lured by the lullaby tune Of the cradling airs that drowsily creep From blossom to blossom, and lazily croon Through the heart of the midnight’s mystic noon, We came to the Gates of the City of Sleep. Faint and sweet as a lily’s repose On the broad black breast of a midnight lake, The City delighted the cradling night: Like a straggling palace of cloud it rose; The towers were crowned with a crystal light Like the starry crown of a white snowflake As they pierced in a wild white pinnacled crowd, Through the dusky wreaths of enchanted cloud That swirled all round like a witch’s hair. And we heard, as the sound of a great sea sighing, The sigh of the sleepless world of care; And we saw strange shadowy figures flying Up to the Ivory Gates and beating With pale hands, long and famished and thin; Like blinded birds we saw them dash Against the cruelly gleaming wall: We heard them wearily moan and call With sharp starved lips for ever entreating The pale doorkeeper to let them in. And still, as they beat, again and again, We saw on the moon-pale lintels a splash Of crimson blood like a poppy-stain Or a wild red rose from the gardens of pain That sigh all night like a ghostly sea From the City of Sleep to Gethsemane. And lo, as we neared that mighty crowd An old blind man came, crying aloud To greet us, as once the blind man cried In the Bible picture--you know we tried To paint that print, with its Eastern sun; But the reds and the yellows _would_ mix and run, And the blue of the sky made a horrible mess Right over the edge of the Lord’s white dress. And the old blind man, just as though he had eyes, Came straight to meet us; and all the cries Of the crowd were hushed; and a strange sweet calm Stole through the air like a breath of the balm That was wafted abroad from the Forest of Thyme (For it rolled all round that curious clime With its magical clouds of perfumed trees.) And the blind man cried, “Our help is at hand, Oh, brothers, remember the old command, Remember the frankincense and myrrh, Make way, make way for those little ones there; Make way, make way, I have seen them afar Under a great white Eastern star; For I am the mad blind man who sees!” Then he whispered, softly--_Of such as these_; And through the hush of the cloven crowd We passed to the gates of the City, and there Our fairy heralds cried aloud-- _Open your Gates; don’t stand and stare; These are the Children for whom our King Made all the star-worlds dance in a ring!_ And lo, like a sorrow that melts from the heart In tears, the slow gates melted apart; And into the City we passed like a dream; And then, in one splendid marching stream The whole of that host came following through. We were only children, just like you; Children, ah, but we felt so grand As we led them--although we could understand Nothing at all of the wonderful song That rose all round as we marched along. SONG _You that have seen how the world and its glory_ _Change and grow old like the love of a friend;_ _You that have come to the end of the story,_ _You that were tired ere you came to the end;_ _You that are weary of laughter and sorrow,_ _Pain and pleasure, labour and sin,_ _Sick of the midnight and dreading the morrow,_ _Ah, come in; come in._ _You that are bearing the load of the ages;_ _You that have loved overmuch and too late;_ _You that confute all the saws of the sages;_ _You that served only because you must wait,_ _Knowing your work was a wasted endeavour;_ _You that have lost and yet triumphed therein,_ _Add loss to your losses and triumph for ever;_ _Ah, come in; come in._ And we knew as we went up that twisted street, With its violet shadows and pearl-pale walls, We were coming to Something strange and sweet, For the dim air echoed with elfin calls; And, far away, in the heart of the City, A murmur of laughter and revelry rose,-- A sound that was faint as the smile of Pity, And sweet as a swan-song’s golden close. And then, once more, as we marched along, There surged all round us that wonderful song; And it swung to the tramp of our marching feet; But ah, it was tenderer now and so sweet That it made our eyes grow wet and blind, And the whole wide-world seem mother-kind, Folding us round with a gentle embrace, And pressing our souls to her soft sweet face. 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. Then we saw that the tunes of the world were one; And the metre that guided the rhythmic sun Was at one, like the ebb and the flow of the sea, With the tunes that we learned at our mother’s knee; The beat of the horse-hoofs that carried us down To see the fine Lady of Banbury Town; And so, by the rhymes that we knew, we could tell Without knowing the others--that all was well. And then, our brains began to spin; For it seemed as if that mighty din Were no less than the cries of the poets and sages Of all the nations in all the ages; And, if they could only beat out the whole Of their music together, the guerdon and goal Of the world would be reached with one mighty shout, And the dark dread secret of Time be out; And nearer, nearer they seemed to climb, And madder and merrier rose the song, And the swings and the see-saws marked the time; For this was the maddest and merriest throng That ever was met on a holy-day To dance the dust of the world away; And madder and merrier, round and round The whirligigs whirled to the whirling sound, Till it seemed that the mad song burst its bars And mixed with the song of the whirling stars, The song that the rhythmic Time-Tides tell To seraphs in Heaven and devils in Hell; Ay; Heaven and Hell in accordant chime With the universal rhythm and rhyme Were nearing the secret of Space and Time; The song of that ultimate mystery Which only the mad blind men who see, Led by the laugh of a little child, Can utter; Ay, wilder and yet more wild It maddened, till now--full song--it was out! It roared from the starry roundabout-- _A child was born in Bethlehem, in Bethlehem, in Bethlehem,_ _A child was born in Bethlehem; ah, hear my fairy fable;_ _For I have seen the King of Kings, no longer thronged with angel wings,_ _But croodling like a little babe, and cradled in a stable._ _The wise men came to greet him with their gifts of myrrh and frankincense,--_ _Gold and myrrh and frankincense they brought to make him mirth;_ _And would you know the way to win to little brother Peterkin,_ _My childhood’s heart shall guide you through the glories of the earth._ _A child was born in Bethlehem, in Bethlehem, in Bethlehem;_ _The wise men came to welcome him: a star stood o’er the gable;_ _And there they saw the Kings of Kings, no longer thronged with angel wings,_ _But croodling like a little babe, and cradled in a stable._ And creeping through the music once again the fairy cry Came freezing o’er the snowy towers to lead us on to Peterkin: Once more the fairy bugles blew from lands beyond the sky, And we all groped out together, dazed and blind, we knew not why; Out through the City’s farther gates we went to look for Peterkin; Out, out into the dark Unknown, and heard the clamour die Far, far away behind us as we trotted on to Peterkin. Then once more along the rare Forest-paths we groped our way: Here the glow-worm’s league-long glare Turned the Wild Thyme night to day: There we passed a sort of whale Sixty feet in length or more, But we knew it was a snail Even when we heard it snore. Often through the glamorous gloom Almost on the top of us We beheld a beetle loom Like a hippopotamus; Once or twice a spotted toad Like a mountain wobbled by With a rolling moon that glowed Through the skin-fringe of its eye. Once a caterpillar bowed Down a leaf of Ygdrasil Like a sunset-coloured cloud Sleeping on a quiet hill: Once we came upon a moth Fast asleep with outspread wings, Like a mighty tissued cloth Woven for the feet of kings. There above the woods in state Many a temple dome that glows Delicately like a great Rainbow-coloured bubble rose: Though they were but flowers on earth, Oh, we dared not enter in; For in that divine re-birth Less than awe were more than sin! Yet their mystic anthems came Sweetly to our listening ears; And their burden was the same-- “No more sorrow, no more tears! Whither Peterkin has gone You, assuredly, shall go: When your wanderings are done, All he knows you, too, shall know!” So we thought we’d onward roam Till earth’s Smallest Flower appeared, With a less tremendous dome Less divinely to be feared: Then, perchance, if we should dare Timidly to enter in, Might some kindly doorkeeper Give us news of Peterkin. At last we saw a crimson porch Far away, like a dull red torch Burning in the purple gloom; And a great ocean of perfume Rolled round us as we drew anear, And then we strangely seemed to hear The shadow of a mighty psalm, A sound as if a golden sea Of music swung in utter calm Against the shores of Eternity; And then we saw the mighty dome Of some mysterious Temple tower On high; and knew that we had come, At last, to that sweet House of Grace Which wise men find in every place-- The Temple of the Smallest Flower. And there--alas--our fairy friends Whispered, “Here our kingdom ends: You must enter in alone, But your souls will surely show Whither Peterkin is gone And the road that you must go: We, poor fairies, have no souls! Hark, the warning hare-bell tolls;” So “Good-bye, good-bye,” they said, “Dear little seekers-for-the-dead.” They vanished; ah, but as they went We heard their voices softly blent In some mysterious fairy song That seemed to make us wise and strong; For it was like the holy calm That fills the bosomed rose with balm, Or blessings that the twilight breathes Where the honeysuckle wreathes Between young lovers and the sky As on banks of flowers they lie; And with wings of rose and green Laughing fairies pass unseen, Singing their sweet lullaby,-- Lulla-lulla-lullaby! Lulla-lulla-lullaby! Ah, good night, with lullaby! * * * * * Only a flower? Those carven walls, Those cornices and coronals, The splendid crimson porch, the thin Strange sounds of singing from within-- Through the scented arch we stept, Pushed back the soft petallic door, And down the velvet aisles we crept; Was it a Flower--no more? For one of the voices that we heard, A child’s voice, clear as the voice of a bird, Was it not?--nay, it could not be! And a woman’s voice that tenderly Answered him in fond refrain, And pierced our hearts with sweet sweet pain, As if dear Mary-mother hung Above some little child, and sung Between the waves of that golden sea The cradle-songs of Eternity; And, while in her deep smile he basked, Answered whatsoe’er he asked. _What is there hid in the heart of a rose,_ _Mother-mine?_ _Ah, who knows, who knows, who knows?_ _A man that died on a lonely hill_ _May tell you, perhaps, but none other will,_ _Little child._ _What does it take to make a rose,_ _Mother-mine?_ _The God that died to make it knows_ _It takes the world’s eternal wars,_ _It takes the moon and all the stars,_ _It takes the might of heaven and hell_ _And the everlasting Love as well,_ _Little child._ But there, in one great shrine apart Within the Temple’s holiest heart, We came upon a blinding light, Suddenly, and a burning throne Of pinnacled glory, wild and white; We could not see Who reigned thereon; For, all at once, as a wood-bird sings, The aisles were full of great white wings Row above mystic burning row; And through the splendour and the glow We saw four angels, great and sweet, With outspread wings and folded feet, Come gliding down from a heaven within The golden heart of Paradise; And in their hands, with laughing eyes, Lay little brother Peterkin. And all around the Temple of the Smallest of the Flowers The glory of the angels made a star for little Peterkin; For all the Kings of Splendour and all the Heavenly Powers Were gathered there together in the fairy forest bowers With all their globed and radiant wings to make a star for Peterkin, The star that shone upon the East, a star that still is ours, Whene’er we hang our stockings up, a star of wings for Peterkin. Then all, in one great flash, was gone-- A voice cried, “Hush, all’s well!” And we stood dreaming there alone, In darkness. Who can tell The mystic quiet that we felt, As if the woods in worship knelt, Far off we heard a bell Tolling strange human folk to prayer Through fields of sunset-coloured air. And then a voice, “Why, here they are!” And--as it seemed--we woke; The sweet old skies, great star by star Upon our vision broke; Field over field of heavenly blue Rose o’er us; then a voice we knew Softly and gently spoke-- “See, they are sleeping by the side Of that dear little one--who died.” PART V THE HAPPY ENDING We told dear father all our tale That night before we went to bed, And at the end his face grew pale, And he bent over us and said (Was it not strange?) he, too, was there, A weary, weary watch to keep Before the gates of the City of Sleep; But, ere we came, he did not dare Even to dream of entering in, Or even to hope for Peterkin. He was the poor blind man, he said, And we--how low he bent his head! Then he called mother near; and low He whispered to us--“Prompt me now; For I forget that song we heard, But you remember every word.” Then memory came like a breaking morn, And we breathed it to him--_A child was born!_ And there he drew us to his breast And softly murmured all the rest.-- _The wise men came to greet him with their gifts of myrrh and frankincense,--_ _Gold and myrrh and frankincense they brought to make him mirth;_ _And would you know the way to win to little brother Peterkin,_ _My childhood’s heart shall guide you through the glories of the earth._ Then he looked up and mother knelt Beside us, oh, her eyes were bright; Her arms were like a lovely belt All round us as we said Good-night To father: _he_ was crying now, But they were happy tears, somehow; For there we saw dear mother lay Her cheek against his cheek and say-- Hush, let me kiss those tears away. _DEDICATION_ _What can a wanderer bring_ _To little ones loved like you?_ _You have songs of your own to sing_ _That are far more steadfast and true,_ _Crumbs of pity for birds_ _That flit o’er your sun-swept lawn,_ _Songs that are dearer than all our words_ _With a love that is clear as the dawn._ _What should a dreamer devise,_ _In the depths of his wayward will,_ _To deepen the gleam of your eyes_ _Who can dance with the Sun-child still?_ _Yet you glanced on his lonely way,_ _You cheered him in dream and deed,_ _And his heart is o’erflowing, o’erflowing to-day_ _With a love that--you never will need._ _What can a pilgrim teach_ _To dwellers in fairy-land?_ _Truth that excels all speech_ _You murmur and understand!_ _All he can sing you he brings;_ _But--one thing more if he may_, _One thing more that the King of Kings_ _Will take from the child on the way._ _Yet how can a child of the night_ _Brighten the light of the sun?_ _How can he add a delight_ _To the dances that never are done?_ _Ah, what if he struggles to turn_ _Once more to the sweet old skies_ _With praise and praise, from the fetters that burn,_ _To the God that brightened your eyes?_ _Yes; he is weak, he will fail,_ _Yet, what if, in sorrows apart,_ _One thing, one should avail,_ _The cry of a grateful heart;_ _It has wings: they return through the night_ _To a sky where the light lives yet,_ _To the clouds that kneel on his mountain-height_ _And the path that his feet forget._ _What if he struggles and still_ _Fails and struggles again?_ _What if his broken will_ _Whispers the struggle is vain?_ _Once at least he has risen_ _Because he remembered your eyes;_ _Once they have brought to his earthly prison_ _The passion of Paradise._ _Kind little eyes that I love,_ _Eyes forgetful of mine,_ _In a dream I am bending above_ _Your sleep, and you open and shine;_ _And I know as my own grow blind_ _With a lonely prayer for your sake,_ _He will hear--even me--little eyes that were kind,_ _God bless you, asleep or awake._ * * * * * BY ALFRED NOYES Poems With an Introduction by HAMILTON MABIE _Cloth, 12mo, $1.25 net_ “Imagination, the capacity to perceive vividly and feel sincerely, and the gift of fit and beautiful expression in verse-form--if these may be taken as the equipment of a poet, nearly all of this volume is poetry. And if to the sum of these be added the indescribable increment of charm which comes occasionally to the work of some poet, quite unearned by any of these catalogued qualities of his, you have a fair measure of Mr. Noyes at his best.... Two considerations render Mr. Noyes interesting above most poets: the wonderful degree in which the personal charm illumines what he has already written, and the surprises which one feels may be in store in his future work. His feelings have already so much variety and so much apparent sincerity that it is impossible to tell in what direction his genius will develop. In whatever style he writes,--the mystical, the historical-dramatic, the impassioned description of natural beauty, the ballad, the love lyric,--he has the peculiarity of seeming in each style to have found the truest expression of himself.”--_Louisville Courier-Journal._ _PUBLISHED BY_ THE MACMILLAN COMPANY Sixty-four and Sixty-six Fifth Avenue, New York A History of English Poetry BY W. J. COURTHOPE, C.B., D.Litt., LL.D. Late Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford _Cloth, 8vo, $3.25 net per volume_ VOLUME I. The Middle Ages--Influence of the Roman Empire--The Encyclopædic Education of the Church--The Feudal System. VOLUME II. The Renaissance and the Reformation--Influence of the Court and the Universities. VOLUME III. English Poetry in the Seventeenth Century--Decadent Influence of the Feudal Monarchy--Growth of the National Genius. VOLUME IV. Development and Decline of the Poetic Drama--Influence of the Court and the People. VOLUME V. The Constitutional Compromise of the Eighteenth Century--Effects of the Classical Renaissance--Its Zenith and Decline--The Early Romantic Renaissance. “It is his privilege to have made a contribution of great value and signal importance to the history of English Literature.”--_Pall Mall Gazette._ _PUBLISHED BY_ THE MACMILLAN COMPANY Sixty-four and Sixty-six Fifth Avenue, New York RECENT POETRY DAWSON--The Worker and Other Poems BY CONINGSBY WILLIAM DAWSON _Cloth, 12mo, $1.25 net; by mail, $1.35_ “The volume cannot be opened anywhere without yielding verse that will repay the reading.”--_Courier-Journal._ FALLAW--Silverleaf and Oak BY LANCE FALLAW _Cloth, 12mo, $1.25_ In the title of this book “Silverleaf” stands for South Africa, and “Oak” for England. NEIDIG--The First Wardens POEMS BY WILLIAM J. NEIDIG A volume of unusual quality of imagination and style, strongly marked with the author’s individuality.--_Inter-Ocean._ IRWIN--Random Rhymes and Odd Numbers BY WALLACE IRWIN “Inimitable jingles, deftly apropos, droll and satiric, striking a humorous note that sounds of genius.”--_Philadelphia Press._ _Illustrated. Cloth, 12mo, $1.50 net_ RECENT POETIC DRAMAS By Mr. PERCY MACKAYE =The Canterbury Pilgrims=: A Comedy _Cloth, illustrated, $1.25 net_ =Fenris, the Wolf=: A Tragedy _Cloth, 12mo, $1.25 net_ Jeanne d’Arc _Illustrated, cloth, 12mo, $1.25_ Presented by E. H. Sothern and Julia Marlowe Sappho and Phaon _12mo, cloth, $1.25_ The play was accepted before publication for presentation by E. H. Sothern and Madame Bertha Kalich. =Mr. STEPHEN PHILLIPS’S= _POETIC PLAYS_ =Ulysses=: A Drama _Cloth, gilt top, $1.25 net_ The Sin of David _Cloth, gilt top, $1.25 net_ Nero _Cloth, gilt top, $1.25 net_ =Mr. WILLIAM B. YEATS’S= _COLLECTED POEMS_ Volume I: =Lyrical Poems= Volume II: =Dramas in Verse=:-- “The Countess Cathleen”--“The Land of Heart’s Desire”--“The King’s Threshold”--“On Baile’s Strand” and “The Shadowy Waters.” _Each volume, cloth, $1.25 net_ *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FLOWER OF OLD JAPAN, AND OTHER POEMS *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution. START: FULL LICENSE THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license. Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works 1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. 1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. 1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with others. 1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States. 1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: 1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed: This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. 1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. 1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. 1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™. 1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License. 1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. 1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. 1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that: • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works. • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work. • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works. 1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. 1.F. 1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. 1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE. 1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem. 1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. 1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. 1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause. Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™ Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life. Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org. Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS. The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate. While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate. International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate. Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org. This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.