Song of the Pilgrims
O Dwellers at the back of the North Wind, What have we done to you? How have we sinned Wandering the Earth from Orkney unto Ind?
With many deaths our fellowship is thinned, Our flesh is withered in the parching wind, Wandering the earth from Orkney unto Ind.
We have no rest. We cannot turn again
Back to the world and all her fruitless pain, Having once sought the land where ye remain.
Some say ye are not. But, ah God! we know
That somewhere, somewhere past the Northern snow
Waiting for us the red-rose gardens blow:
-The red-rose and the white-rose gardens blow
In the green Northern land to which we go, Surely the ways are long and the years are slow.
We have forsaken all things sweet and fair, We have found nothing worth a moment's care Because the real flowers are blowing there.
Land of the Lotus fallen from the sun, Land of the Lake from whence all rivers run, Land where the hope of all our dreams is won!
Shall we not somewhere see at close of day
The green walls of that country far away, And hear the music of her fountains play?
So long we have been wandering all this while
By many a perilous sea and drifting isle, We scarce shall dare to look thereon and smile.
Yea, when we are drawing very near to thee, And when at last the ivory port we see Our hearts will faint with mere felicity:
But we shall wake again in gardens bright
Of green and gold for infinite delight, Sleeping beneath the solemn mountains white, While from the flowery copses still unseen Sing out the crooning birds that ne'er have been Touched by the hand of winter frore and lean;
And ever living queens that grow not old
And poets wise in robes of faerie gold
Whisper a wild, sweet song that first was told
Ere God sat down to make the Milky Way. And in those gardens we shall sleep and play For ever and for ever and a day.
Ah, Dwellers at the back of the North Wind, What have we done to you? How have we sinned, That yes should hide beyond the Northern wind?
Land of the Lotus, fallen from the Sun, When shall your hidden, flowery vales be won And all the travail of our way be done?
Very far we have searched; we have even seen
The Scythian waste that bears no soft nor green, And near the Hideous Pass our feet have been.
We have heard Syrens singing all night long
Beneath the unknown stars their lonely song
In friendless seas beyond the Pillars strong.
Nor by the dragon-daughter of Hypocras
Nor the vale of the Devil's head we have feared to pass, Yet is our labour lost and vain, alas!
Scouring the earth from Orkney unto Ind, Tossed on the seas and withered in the wind, We seek and seek your land. How have we sinned?
Or is it all a folly of the wise, Bidding us walk these ways with blinded eyes While all around us real flowers arise?
But, by the very God, we know, we know
That somewhere still, beyond the Northern snow
Waiting for us the red-rose gardens blow.
Song
Faeries must be in the woods
Or the satyrs' laughing broods-
Tritons in the summer sea, Else how could the dead things be Half so lovely as they are? How could wealth of star on star Dusted o'er the frosty night Fill thy spirit with delight And lead thee from this care of thine Up among the dreams divine, Were it not that each and all Of them that walk the heavenly hall Is in truth a happy isle, Where eternal meadows smile, And golden globes of fruit are seen Twinkling through the orchards green; Were the Other People go On the bright sward to and fro? Atoms dead could never thus Stir the human heart of us Unless the beauty that we see The veil of endless beauty be, Filled full of spirits that have trod Far hence along the heavenly sod And see the bright footprints of God.
The Ass
I woke and rose and slipt away
To the heathery hills in the morning grey.
In a field where the dew lay cold and deep
I met an ass, new-roused from sleep.
I stroked his nose and I tickled his ears, And spoke soft words to quiet his fears.
His eyes stared into the eyes of me
And he kissed my hands of his courtesy.
"O big, brown brother out of the waste, How do thistles for breakfast taste?
"And do you rejoice in the dawn divine
With a heart that is glad no less than mine?
"For, brother, the depth of your gentle eyes
Is strange and mystic as the skies:
"What are the thoughts that grope behind, Down in the mist of a donkey mind?
"Can it be true, as the wise men tell, That you are a mask of God as well,
