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.
