The Cup of Comus Part 6

And the Elfin bore on its back A little faery pack Of forest scents: of loam And mossy sounds of foam; And of its contents breathed As might a clod of ground Feeling a bud unsheathed There in its womb profound.

And the shadow smiled and gazed At the child; then softly raised Its arms and seemed to grow To a tree in the attic low: And from its glimmering hands Shook emerald seeds of dreams, From which grew fairy bands, Like firefly motes and gleams.

The child had seen them before In his dreams of Fairy lore: The Elves, each with a light To guide his feet a-right, Out of this world to a world Where Magic built him towers, And Fable old, unfurled, flags like wonderful flowers.

And the child, who knew this, smiled, And rose, a different child: No more he knew of pain, Or fear of heart and brain.-- At Poverty there that slept He never even glanced, But into the moon-road stept, And out of the garret danced.

Out of the earthly gloom, Out of the sordid room, Out, on a moonbeam ray!-- Now at last to play There with comrades found!

Children of the moon, There on faery ground, Where none would find him soon!

_HAEC OLIM MEMINISSE_

Febrile perfumes as of faded roses In the old house speak of love to-day, Love long past; and where the soft day closes, Down the west gleams, golden-red, a ray.

Pointing where departed splendor perished, And the path that night shall walk, and hang, On blue boughs of heaven, gold, long cherished-- Fruit Hesperian,--that the ancients sang.

And to him, who sits there dreaming, musing, At the window in the twilight wan, Like old scent of roses interfusing, Comes a vision of a day that's gone.

And he sees Youth, walking brave but dimly 'Mid the roses, in the afterglow; And beside him, like a star seen slimly, Love, who used to meet him long-ago.

And again he seems to hear the flowers Whispering faintly of what no one knows-- Of the dreams they dreamed there for long hours, Youth and Love, between their hearts a rose.

Youth is dead; and Love, oh, where departed!

Like the last streak of the dying day, Somewhere yonder, in a world uncharted, Calling him, with memories, away.

_THE MAGIC PURSE_

What is the gold of mortal-kind To that men find Deep in the poet's mind!-- That magic purse Of Dreams from which G.o.d builds His universe!

That makes life rich With many a vision; Taking the soul from out its prison Of facts with the precision A wildflower dons When Spring comes knocking at the door Of Earth across the windy lawns; Calling to Joy to rise and dance before Her happy feet: Or with the beat And bright exactness of a star, Hanging its punctual point afar, When Night comes tripping over Heaven's floor, Leaving a gate ajar.

That leads the Heart from all its aching Far above where day is breaking; Out of the doubts, the agonies, The strife and sin, to join with these-- Hope and Beauty and Joy that build Their golden walls Of sunset where, with spirits filled, A Presence calls, And points a land Where Love walks, silent; hand in hand With the Spirit of G.o.d, and leads Man right Out of the darkness into the light.

_THE CHILD AT THE GATE_

The sunset was a sleepy gold, And stars were in the skies When down a weedy lane he strolled In vague and thoughtless wise.

And then he saw it, near a wood, An old house, gabled brown, Like some old woman, in a hood, Looking toward the town.

A child stood at its broken gate, Singing a childish song, And weeping softly as if Fate Had done her child's heart wrong.

He spoke to her:--"Now tell me, dear, Why do you sing and weep?"-- But she--she did not seem to hear, But stared as if asleep.

Then suddenly she turned and fled As if with soul of fear.

He followed; but the house looked dead, And empty many a year.

The light was wan: the dying day Grew ghostly suddenly: And from the house he turned away, Wrapped in its mystery.

They told him no one dwelt there now: It was a haunted place.-- And then it came to him, somehow, The memory of a face.

That child's--like hers, whose name was Joy-- For whom his heart was fain: The face of her whom, when a boy, He played with in that lane.

_THE LOST DREAM_

The black night showed its hungry teeth, And gnawed with sleet at roof and pane; Beneath the door I heard it breathe-- A beast that growled in vain.

The hunter wind stalked up and down, And crashed his ice-spears through each tree; Before his rage, in tattered gown, I saw the maid moon flee.

There stole a footstep to my door; A voice cried in my room and--there!

A shadow cowled and gaunt and h.o.a.r, Death, leaned above my chair.

He beckoned me; he bade me rise, And follow through the madman night; Into my heart's core pierced his eyes, And lifted me with might.

I rose; I made no more delay; And followed where his eyes compelled; And through the darkness, far away, They lit me and enspelled.

Until we reached an ancient wood, That flung its twisted arms around, As if in anguish that it stood On dark, unhallowed ground.

And then I saw it--cold and blind-- The dream, that had my heart to share, That fell, before its feet could find Its home, and perished there.

_WITCHCRAFT_

This world is made a witchcraft place With gazing on a woman's face.

Now 'tis her smile, whose sorcery Turns all my thoughts to melody.

Now 'tis her frown, that comes and goes, That makes my day a page of prose.

And now her laugh, or but a word, That in my heart frees wild a bird.