THE GRAY MAGICIAN
I WAS living very merrily on Middle Earth
As merry as a maid may be
Till the Gray Magician came down along the road
And flung his cobweb cloak on me:
His cobweb cloak of gray brushed my eyes and my ears
And all the curtained air was thinned, And I came to the sight of the quiet Other People Who live in the water and the wind:
And I cannot go abroad to gather up the faggots, Singing to the honest air Because of the fingers of the brown wood-women Catching at my blowing hair:
And I cannot sit at home and be quiet at my spinning, Singing to the thread I spin, Because of the crying of the green sea-women Beneath my sill to be let in:
And I wish the Gray Magician had been swung to an oak
Or drowned in the deep green sea
Before he brushed my face with his cobweb cloak
And stole the Middle Earth from me!
THE DANCERS
(For Edwin Arlington Robinson)
OURS was a quiet town, a still town, a sober town, Softly curled the yellow roads that slept in the sun, Staid came the day up and staid came the night down And staidly went we sleepwise when the day's work was done!
Oh, they came dancing down, the gay ones, the bonny ones, We had never seen the like, sweet and wild and glad, Down the long roads they came, fluting and dancing, Flowers in each lass's hair and plumes on each lad!
Sweet were their clinging hands, kind were their voices, "Dance with us, laugh with us, good grave folk," said they, "Swift we must go from you, time's long for toiling, Come and make joy with us the brief while we stay!"
Oh, then was a gay time, a wild time, a glad time, Hand in hand we danced with them beneath sun and moon, Flowers were for garlanding and greens were for dancing– This was the wisdom we learned of them too soon!
Swift went the day past, a glad day, a wild day, Swift went the night past, a night wild and glad, Down fell their arms from us, loosening, fleeting, Far down the roads they danced, wild lass and wild lad!
Far fled their dancing feet, far rang their laughter, Far gleamed their mocking eyes beneath the garlands gay, All too late we knew them then, the wild eyes, the elf-eyes, Wood-folk and faun-folk that danced our hearts away!
* * * * * *
Ours is a still town, a sad town, a sober town, Still lie the dun roads all empty in the sun, Sad comes the day up and sad falls the night down, And sadly go we sleepwise when the day's watch is done!
THE GYPSY STAR
THERE were seven shining stars that swung above my cradle
(She never was kind to me, Diana our Lady the Moon!) And one was rosy-pale, and one was scarlet-golden, And one was a little shadowed star that only could vanish soon!
Oh, Mars was scarlet-wild and Venus was veiled in shadow
(She called to the clouds to come, Diana our Lady of Snow!) But all of the stars that rose and helped me where I must wander They never could hold the Gypsy Star to the roads where my feet must go!
Oh, one was a star of crowns and one was a star of dreaming
And one was a star of mockery and one was a help from pain, And ever the Sun was kind and shone for my idle singing, But ah, my wandering Gypsy Star I never shall find again!
Oh, Mars may burn to dusk and Venus may rise from shadow
And even the Moon that hated me forget as she lifts the tide, Yet what if they gleam or fade, and what if they stay or wander? . . . Alas, my wandering Gypsy Star that faded and flamed and died!
THE FAUN'S SWEETHEART
WE met by the Wood of Doom, Day gone and the dusk come after . . . And I thought you were one like the lads anear, Only more glad and fair, Till I heard you laugh in the gloom And I knew a faun's wild laughter– But oh, it was all too late to fear The little horns in your hair!
Far back leaped the woodlights' glow, And you fled– and I might not follow, And I loosed the hold of your hurrying hand At the piercing wood-flutes' call; For my human feet fell slow, Flagging at hill and hollow, Till far rang back from the leaping band The click of your light footfall.
* * * * * *
The days pass long and still
Where I sit still at my spinning . . . But I wish the sounds of the talking stream Would hush, and I might not know Over the forest-hill The sounds of the night's beginning, Nor see the flit of the hurrying gleam Where the lightfoot woodfolk go!