The Shadow Garden (A Phantasy) |
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 | The Shadow Garden |  |
1
THE SHADOW GARDEN
A PHANTASY
3
- The Shadow of a Man
- The Shadow of a Woman
- The Soul of a Child
- The Shadow of a Dream
- Elves of the Moonlight
- Elves of the Starlight
- The Wind
- The Fountain
- The Grass
- The Dew
- The Firefly
- The Cricket
- The Moth
- The Beetle
- Various Flowers
- The Rose
- The August Lily
- Sunflower
- Moonflower
- Johnny-jump-up, etc., etc.
APPEARANCES
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SCENE I
A Part of the Garden near the FountainThe Grass:
Two will pass here soon.
Through my prescient roots
Already thrills the touch of shadowy feet.
The Rose:
I feel them coming, and the bud I was,
In sweet anticipation of their eyes,
Is grown full-blown. How long now must we wait?—
Why is the Wind so still? Why comes it not?
The Grass:
It hangs on expectation; fears to breathe
Lest it disturb the beauty of the night,
Or interfere with what our hearts perpend.—
I saw the Firefly but a moment since
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Adown the darkness.—Saw'st thou where it went?
The Rose:
I saw it glimmer towards the dial-stone
Lost in the shadow of the lonely yew,
Where, here and there, it punctuates the dark
With wandering gold, as if it sought for those
Who come not yet.—Listen!—A little flower
Is yawning silkenly here at my feet.
A sleepy-head that nods a velvet night-cap,
A monkey face, half faery and half flower.
Johnny-jump-up:
Odds bodds! What 's that which will not let me sleep?
That keeps a chatter like a windy leaf
On Autumn's topmost bough.—What flower art thou?
The Rose:
Thou little jester of the flowers, keep still!—
Superiors gossip. Keep thy talk for clowns.
Johnny-jump-up:
That 's courtesy. Clowns always are polite,
And you great lords and ladies rarely are.—
I'll talk no more with thy high haughtiness,
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I never knew before that flowers were green.
How emerald-green it is!—How strange!—Heigh-ho!
I am just born: tell me what flower thou art.
The Grass:
I am no flower. Better than any flower,
Or any tree am I; and, more than all,
I am the green thought of the Earth, that cools
The Sun's hot gaze: I am what flesh becomes.
Johnny-jump-up:
Grass!—Oh!—That 's next to being nobody.
Thy voice is as the Wind in restless boughs.—
I'll find a lordlier thing to talk to.—Eh!
Who 's this lank giant with a crown of rays,
Head-heavy with his load of sleeping bees?
A Sunflower!—Well, I am too far away
For any talk with him. I'll go to sleep.
Sunflower:
My drowsy bees, that huddle in my hair,
Are shaken by a voice and stir in sleep:
Their frowsy heads plunged deep in pollened bloom,
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Who called to me?—An insect in the grass?
The Grass:
O lover of the Sun, a flower spoke;
A little impudent flower, that 's gone to sleep;
Impertinent as a child that has its way,
Being spoiled with kindness.—Hearken: from thy height,
Saw'st thou the way the Firefly went?
Sunflower:
I saw.
The Fountain caught its sparkle on its crest;
The dew imprisoned it a moment there
And hung it on a moonflower ere it fell.
The Dew:
I faint with beauty of the night. A star
Went past me and I drank its gleam of gold.
My soul is dazed with loveliness. I die
In dim responses of divinest light,
Reflections of that flame which passed me by.—
I palpitate with silver and with green,
Glimmering the great emotion of my soul.—
I leapt to follow, and I lie amazed
—In whose green arms?—Whose life-restoring arms?
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Mine. Lie thou quiet; closer to me now.
I feel the trembling of thy crystal heart,
Lucent with happiness. Thy starry pulse
Wakes a responsive ecstasy in me.—
Lie closer in my arms.—Love comes this way.
Thou too shalt feel his sadness as have I.
The Dew:
A star went past me. I would follow it.
A star of lambent gold, like dreams I dream
Among the heavy ferns where Elfins dance
When the great Moon, in broad astonishment,
Looks on the stream that shakes its wild-flower-bells.
The Grass:
It went, but will return.—Lie still and dream.
The Rose:
I hear the Wind. It whispers to itself
Of things it knows that we can never know.
Haply it speaks of sorrow; those who come;
The two sad Shadows with the pensive brows,
Who on this night bend o'er my shrinking blooms.
All that I know is that two flowers of mine
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I hear the Fountain talking to the Wind.
Listen: what are the words its pale lips sigh?
The Grass:
Dim protestations that avail it not
Of evanescent things that fade away.
The Rose:
A sound that strikes with panic all my blooms
And sets their petals trembling to their fall.
The Fountain:
Oh, clasp me not so wildly! making stream
The pale foam of my hair against thy face.
Pass on, wild-footed one, and let me sleep.
The grass and flowers await thee.—Once again
Kiss me and go. Unloose thee from my hair;
And when the night is old come thou again
And sleep beside me. Go thy restless way.
The Grass and Flowers are calling. What detains?—
The Wind:
I see two faces in thy shadowy glass;
Two faces of two lovers who are dead.
Thou dost contain them. Paler far are they
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Now a slim ripple trembles them. They pass,
But come again. Th' obliterating wave
Erases them once more.—Didst thou not feel
The sadness and the beauty of the two?—
Beautiful art thou, but far more beautiful
The Shadows that thou showest me; that make
My soul more sad than Winter when it grieves.
The Fountain:
I felt them in my breast but could not see:
My long hair blinded me. They'll come again
When night is old. Long years ago they came,
Two mortals then, and sat upon my marge,
Dropping the ruined roses in my stream
With many a tear, the epilogue of their sighs.
How long ago it is I can not say:
But yon great yew was but a sapling then.
And I remember when they came no more,
And through the Garden how a murmur went
Of death and sorrow which these two concerned.—
Two graves lie yonder deep among the weeds;
And from the weeds at times two Shadows steal:
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Glimmers along the grass. Go; follow it.
The Wind:
I follow the Firefly: soon I will return.
Thy beauty draws me ever; but the dreams,
Reflected of thy face, lead to despair.—
Have done with dreams, and turn to Love and me,
O weaver of wild veils of spray and foam.
Farewell.
The Fountain:
Farewell. Despair is not for me.
Thou followest Shadows: they lead to despair.
The Wind:
Soon I return. A Soul I'll bring to thee.
The Cricket:
Who is it trembles by the rose and makes
A small thin rustle as of dying grass?
The Beetle:
Who passed me, dimmer than the gossamer
That trails its white way 'thwart the waning moon?
Who touched my shards to silence with a sigh?
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Who woke me in the bosom of the rose
With the pale passage of inaudible feet?
The Firefly
(appearing):
I lamp the way of Grief.—Look not on me;
But on these two whom my green lanthorn lights.
[The Shadows of a Man and a Woman appear.
The Rose:
They pause beside me.—Shadows of the night,
What would you here?—Wither me not with grief!
Shadow of the Man:
This is the rose-tree. Hast thou still a rose?
The Rose:
Many a rose has died since you were here,
And many a rose been born. The crimson beats
Still in my veins and manifests itself
In blossoms still, symbols of love and life.
Shadow of the Woman:
Grief hath changed all things. This is too hath changed.
My rose is ashes. What availeth it?
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Thy rose and mine are withered. Let them hang
Upon this bough whence Love once gathered them. ...
Perhaps the force that evermore renews
The beauty of the Earth, old sorceries
Of resurrection rehabilitating
Ruin with life, will make them as they were.
—But no. The bough is dead where once they grew
And a great spider webs it round and round.
Shadow of the Woman:
But here 's a living bough without a thorn;
It may revive them, touching buds just born.
[They place two withered roses upon the blossoming branch.
The Rose:
Pain! pain!—Through crimson of my petalled pulse
I feel the torture of forgotten years,
When Winter smote me into iron and gnashed
His fangs of ice against me, bit me bare.
Again I feel the agony, that takes
The form of thorns, bristling my thornless boughs.—
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Ashes and dust of roses!—Take thy dead
From off the living! Lay them on your hearts.—
Pain! Pain!—O thorns and roses that were mine!
The Grass:
My breast is wet with unaccustomed dew
Salt drops that burn; the bitterness of brine.
The Dew:
My life is mixed with darkness. I am changed.—
Farewell, belovéd: lo, I swoon and die.
The Rose:
My stem is thorny. Let the Wind come now
And strew my blossoms on the sleeping grass.
The Grass:
I sleep not; never. Let thy blossoms fall.
The Wind:
Who called me?
The Grass:
'T was the Rose. It fain would fall
Upon my bosom. Bring thou her to me.
The Wind:
Dead roses, not the living, do I bring.
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All dreams must die, as died our roses here.
Not one sweet dream remains to us—not one.
Ashes of roses and the dust of dreams.—
Haply were we more innocent we, too,
Might resurrect our dream, that died with these,
As wizardry evokes the living form
From dust of beauty. For in these persist,
These ruins of roses, ineradicable things,
Old essences of fragrant dew and fire,
Some moment, unforgetable, recalls,
Building a world of memories that are real
As is the perfume nothing can destroy.—
Crumble thy rose with mine.—Now let the Wind
Sow their dead scent around us.
The Wind:
Be it so.
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SCENE II
A Part of the Garden near a Moon-DialLarkspur:
What are these moth-like creatures, winged with film,
And star- and moon-dust, dancing down the night?
A light glows through them as through globéd rain
A firefly's glimmer, green and silver green.
Candytuft:
Elves of the Star- and Moon-light. Every bud,
That pushes its sweet way into God's air
Within me, leaps at impact of their feet:
And every flow'r 's agog to see them pass,
And breathes a deeper breath of pure perfume.—
Listen! I hear the music of their hearts
Keep time to their wild wings.—Light thrids their limbs
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I swoon with ecstasy.—They touch me now.
Larkspur
(as the Elves appear):
Take care lest joy should kill thee.
Candytuft:
It is grief,
Not joy, that kills. ... See where they come! they come,
Dazing the winds with wonder. Hear them speak.
Elves of the Starlight:
A madder whirl! madder around the Rose!—
Hey, Trip and Trixy, Thistlepuff and Foam,
Mothfeather, Fernseed, Wink and Rippleray,
Wing-tip to tip and toe to twinkling toe,
Trip it and spin it. Make the Flowers grow.—
A thousand buds must break ere dawn of day.
Elves of the Moonlight:
Faster and faster! ... Here 's an humblebee!
Gone dead asleep deep in this hollyhock!—
There 's comfort for you! Hear him how he snores.—
Ho there! what Inn is this? What drink do y' sell?—
A boozing den, forsooth, for lazy bees!—
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Hey ho, thou tippler, drunk with honeydew,
Out, out, thou burly braggart!—Art the host?—
We'll ruin thy business!—Look! he never moves. ...
Here, Batwing, tease him with a whip of web:
Imp-ride him now as Nightmares ride digestion. ...
Well done!—He doth protest?—Out, out with him!
With all the goblin gold that weighs his thighs,
And sack of honey in his shaggy paunch.—
This is no wayside-tavern for fat bees.
Elves of the Starlight:
What rakehell flower's this with swaggering plume!—
A Cockscomb!—Well!—pranked with a butterfly.—
Off with thy finery, thou swashbuckler!
Thy butterfly-order with its bossy gold.—
One would imagine thee a titled prince
Or belted knight, plebeian that thou art!—
Here is the royalty where it belongs,
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This regal Lily with its silken air.
There let it dream.—Here comes a snail our way.
Elves of the Moonlight:
Two snails!—And there slides down a sleepy slug.—
Off, thou Obesity! wouldst gnaw this rose?—
Bring here those gossamers that line and loop
With moon-thin wefts the bugled honeysuckles.
Bridle these vermin with their silvery silk,—
And rein them taut by their astonished horns.
Now prick them with ambition, not unreal,
And let a vision of a feast to be
Grow in their heads of ooze.—Ho, Foxfire, there!
Drag up a mushroom from the glowworm soil,
Yonder among the weeds; and let it be
The set goal for a race between these three.—
Up! stride their slimy backs.—Away! away!—
Who wins now? Spark or Twinkle? Ripple-ray? ...
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Ay; let them feel the metal of your spurs.—
The snail that wins shall have the largest share
O' th' pinkest part o' the plump fungus there.
Elves of the Starlight:
Here is a Moth, as delicate as a dream,
Hovering above this rosebud's heart of flame—
As 'twere a candle where it would be singed.—
What message does it bear?—The creature waves
Its plumy head as if it mocked at us,
And kept its information for the flowers.
The Moth:
Your revels here have scandalised the Garden.
Where Grief goes Folly should be circumspect.
Elves of the Starlight:
Ho! here 's a howdy-do! A thing of down
And flossy white, a sort of butterfly,
That once was but a crawling, obscene worm,
Turned old philosopher to lecture us
On our behaviour! ... Ring it round and round!
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Of fluffy wings and plumes.—We are thy betters;
And when thou dost correct us—be advised.
Lie there now, wretched, till thou gather sense.
Elves of the Moonlight:
Two shadows wander this way. One is fair,
With eyes of dreaming azure, deep as night,
And hair like moonlight on a leaping stream.
And one is dark, with eyes of sadness, soft
As pansies velveted with dreams and dew,
And hair like night upon a sleeping stream.
Elves of the Starlight:
These are the Lovers whom in ancient days
We saw here roaming through the purple dusk.
Misfortune overtook them and the change
For which we have no name. Their Shadows now
Revisit the old places of their love,
Earth-bound by grief and loss of innocence.
Draw near and hearken.
[The Shadows appear.
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Elfins haunt these walks.
The place is most propitious and the time.—
See how they trip it!—There one rides a snail.
And here another teases at a bee.—
In spite of grief my soul could almost smile.—
Elfins! frail spirits of the Stars and Moon,
'T is manifest to me 't is you we see.—
We never knew, or cared, once.—Would we had!—
Our lives had proved less empty; and the joy,
That comes with beautiful belief in everything
That makes for childhood, had then touched us young
And kept us young for ever; young in heart—
The only youth man has. But man believes
In only what he contacts; what he sees;
Not what he feels most. Crass, material touch
And vision are his all. The loveliness,
That ambuscades him in his dreams and thoughts,
Is merely portion of his thoughts and dreams
And counts for nothing that he reckons real;
But is, in fact, less insubstantial than
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That great inhuman world of evidence,
Which doubts and scoffs and steadily grows old
With what it christens wisdom.—Did it know,
The wise are only they who keep their minds
As little children's, innocent of doubt,
Believing all things beautiful are true.
Shadow of the Woman:
This is the Loveliness, uncomprehended,
Imperishable, and full of faery tricks,
Invisible once, that oft we felt here when
Our mortal steps went wandering mid these Flowers.
Impossible creatures of the Stars and Moon,
What do ye here?—What revels do ye hold?
What wonders do ye work? ... In days long gone
I felt you round me, but I could not see.
I did not dream 't was Elfland that bewitched
My heart with dreams and gentled it with love.
Elves of the Starlight:
This Garden is our work-shop, playground too.—
25
Danced dreams into your heart.—Here is a bud.—
Watch us at work. A lump of lead, you see,
Transformed to mother-of-pearl.—Our part observe,
Is to bring Loveliness into the world.—
What think you of a child, a minute old,
That prattles wisdom as this infant does.
Moonflower
(that has just been born):
What bliss is this! what sudden, silken joy
Of swift awakening!—Did music give me life?
Kissing my dewy eyelids while I slept,
Saying Be born! ... And who are these? and you?—
Fair presences who touched me into being?—
And why am I? and what am I? and whence?
Elves of the Moonlight:
So apt at questions and a moment born!—
O young inquisitor, we are the Elves.—
The Wind will answer all thy questions, sweet,
And press his angry kisses on thy mouth.
Keep all thy questions for him, fragrant one.—
26
But simply do them for the beauty of it.
Thou art thy own sweet reason for thyself,
Being beautiful, and need'st not ask wherefore.—
But why and whence—the wise, instructing Wind
Will answer that, and tell thee marvellous things,
And woo thee with harsh kisses of his mouth,
And fill thee with sad wisdom ere thou die.
For to be wise is to be sad, they say,
And death will come in time, all Flowers know.
Moonflower:
And what is death? What does it mean to die?—
I do not wish to die. Life is too sweet.
Elves of the Starlight:
The never-dying Wind will tell thee that.
Enough now that thou livest. These are dead,—
These two sad Shadows bending o'er a Rose,—
But have a certain life, we know not of,
After they die, or change; for men must die,
And flowers must die; but we—we never die.
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The dreams the world refuses oft to see.—
Facts pass and perish, but the dreams endure.
This is the only immortality.
[Elves pass on.
Shadow of the Man:
Here is the Rose that once we found so sweet.
One bloom is withering and one bloom is blown,
And a frail moth clings to the heart of one.
Shadow of the Woman:
Perhaps it is a dream materialised;
The pale thought of some dead rose come to tell
The living rose the secret of all death.
The Moth:
I am the kiss that twilight gives to night,
That darkness dreams of, lends material form.
I bear white messages from flower to flower
No words may syllable nor any speech.
I messenger between the dusk and dew,
And thrill to life the seed within the bloom.
There is no privacy that shuts me out.
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Fanning frail wings of moonlight 'thwart the moon;
The intimate of dreams that darkness dreams.
Shadow of the Man:
Yea, we are answered. 'T is a symbol only,
This pallid life, that messengers back and forth,
Between the dusk and dawn, among the Flowers.—
All, all is mystery. Questions profit naught.
Result in nothing.—Let us farther seek,
Between the Fountain and the Wind.
Shadow of the Woman:
I see
A Firefly flicker there, beneath the thorns.
Come, let us go. Haply 't will show us soon
Some answer, long deferred, for all this grief;—
Some reason, long withheld of Heaven and God;—
And reunite us in some fairer place
With the sweet soul of that we lost long since,
The Innocence of earth gone with our dreams.—
The light says follow, but 't is far away,
29
[They pass on.
The Beetle:
Thank mercy they are gone! Now I can eat
Snapdragon:
There is that Beetle bungling at my ear.
What a voracious beast it is.—Be gone.
The Beetle:
I would but whisper something in thy ear.—
What dost thou think now of those two just gone?
Snapdragon:
That they 're inquisitive of what concerns
Not me or thee. What sickness, eh, is theirs?
Is it the blight, or, haply, the red-spider?
Or something worse than plagues the flowers have,
I wonder. Haply, did they ask of me,
I could inform them of the thing they seek;
For I am gossip of the Gnomes, who dwell
Beneath the rocks there by the mossy wall,
And who, each night, make me their confidant,
In payment for the loan of these my blossoms
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The Beetle:
They are very fine.
I love thy blossoms too. Come, lean them down,
And let me see what colour streaks each crown.
Snapdragon:
Feed not so fiercely. Thou hast torn my blooms.
Thy harsh feet rend my leaves; thy mandibles pierce.
Off, vampire!—Ha!—Didst get a fall?—Lie there.
Be gentler next time. What wind blew thee hither?
The Beetle:
No wind; but that sweet leaf which suppered me
Last eve, and music of our cricket friend,
Who still persists in serenading thee.
Some day some Gnome will steal his fiddlebow,
Or crack the stretched strings of his violin,
And hang him with them from thy windowed leaves
For all thy Flowers to gape at.—Tell me now,
What dost thou give him for that rusty tune?
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Honey of praise and fragrance-dewed applause
Dropped from my golden throat, thou wingéd fang!
The Beetle:
Oh, if thou 'rt angry, as I think thou art,
I will get hence. I know a Flower now
That greets me like a brother. 'T will be glad
To house me for the night. So, fare thee well.
[Passes on.
Snapdragon:
Play up, my Cricket. Snap thy fiddle strings;
I listen with my twenty delicate ears.
The Cricket:
I heard the Elfins but an hour agone
Trip to my music, therefore still I play.—
'T is for no Snapdragon, nor any Flower,
I keep my fiddle tight. My strings are stretched
For better folk than Flowers.—Eh?—Go to!—
Here come my people. Tinkle I must again,
A nimble melody for nimble feet.
[Elves appear.
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Those Shades are gone.—
Would they were gone for ever!
Why bring their troubles here?—They disarrange
Our midnight revels.—Would they slay this Rose?—
Oft have they stood above it whispering,
And every time the Rose let fall a bloom,
A crimson heart-drop.—This will never do.
We must search out their sorrow, and preserve
The gladness of our Garden. Why, look here,
Even our Snapdragon, the jolliest flower
That ever tossed its bonnets to the Wind,
Is melancholy, hangs its heads in grief. ...
Where passed those Shadows, tell us, lovely Rose?
The Rose:
Into the shadow of yon twisted thorn,
Where two dim graves raise low their weedy mounds,
And where the Firefly trims its phantom lamp.
Elves of the Moonlight:
We dare not follow there. We can not dance,
33
In clay and darkness.—Come, we will go hence.—
A sorry business hovering round their graves!
Unhappy in their lives and sad in death,
What may deliver them, except themselves,
Or that sweet spirit, Inexperience,
Born of their dreams, but lost before they died?
That would release them, could it now be found,
From their unhappiness.—We can not help.—
Come, let us go away. Our life is joy;
And joy is part of immortality.—
So let us hence and dance till daybreak there
Where the pale Fountain tosses wild its hair.
The Cricket:
And I will follow with my tinkling tune.
Elves could not do without me and—the moon.
34
SCENE III
A Part of the Garden near two GravesShadow of a Dream:
I am the Dream of Life that those two lost. ...
For many years I have been near to them,
But they—they have not seen me, have forgotten:
My face they know no more, that still is fair
As once they made it, when their love created.
They gave me being and I go the rounds
Of this old Garden, giving expression to
Its inner loveliness.—Long since they died.
But I—I never die. Love lives in me.
What the dim Flowers here were talking of
I whispered to them many years ago.
They never can forget; nor can the Wind
And Fountain there forget. They sigh and sigh
Remembering me, the Dream, they think that died
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But I am always here. They know me not,
Who knew me once so well. To-night, perhaps,
My beauty shall avail.—What say'st thou, Rose?
The Rose:
I saw thee coming and my buds took on
A new expression of young loveliness,
Caught from thy insubstantial form that seems
Arrested moonlight. ... Tell me: is there aught
That may avail in thee, or me, or these,—
These many Flowers of our wilderness,—
The Fountain or the Wind, or Moth, or Elves,
To help these Shadows in their wandering grief?
Shadow of a Dream:
In thee and these is naught. But here in me
Is something that may medicine their pain.
They have forgotten me and one they lost,
The Child, the faery Child, named Innocence,
Born of their souls' revealment long ago.
Through it, and it alone, forgotten long,
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And old unhappiness and griefs of earth
Fall from them like dark raiment; and this place
Shall know their forms no more, gone forth with joy.
The Rose:
The air smells balmy here. What breathes around
Like Spring and Summer meeting in the dew
Beneath the thin new moon?—More spiced than I,
Sweet Flower of the night, tell me thy name.
August Lily:
I have no name, except a general one;
And that, they say, 's plebeian. But, like thee,
I'm of an ancient aristocracy.—
The human Christ bade men regard me; yea,
Consider my loveliness.—I have turned poet;
Music of beautiful words possesses me:
Such high attention, such authority,
And memory of that speech, which masters me,
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And mediatte on beauty evermore,
And all my thoughts are fragrance. ... 'T was a thought,
That came to me to-night, whose myrrhed breath spiced
The air so sweetly, swooning on thy sense.
A mystery whispered it, or something there,
Some presence that I know not, haply Love's,
That sank into my heart like honeydew.
Its revelation fills me still with wonder
Of secret perfume, as it filled me when
God thought us into flowers, and His eyes
Rejoiced in us, and rested on us there
In Eden, and He saw that we were fair.
Therefore it is all Flowers are beautiful,
And sinless as the first-born children of God;
And all we ask is that men give us thought,
And be as we are, sinless and serene,
Dreaming their lives out.
Shadow of a Dream:
Life is but a dream.—
38
You took your cue from me. You but repeat.—
Shadow of a Dream:
A dream that 's born again for new delight.—
Spring does not perish; nor the Rose.—Imperishable,
They have immortal life, retaining each
Its own identity within the soul:
Part of the dreams are they that they suggest;
Symbolic thoughts through which our mother, Nature,
Expresses her desires, and aye renews
Her beauty. So there 's no such thing as death.
August Lily:
Thou art elusive as a dream should be.
My cousin here 's impressed.—O gentle Rose,
Why art thou so absorbed upon the grass?
The Rose:
I see my petals dropping, one by one.
I see them lying for the Wind to scatter.
Thou dost not know, hast never pressed a heart,
A human heart, and turned to dust with it.
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Naught know I of the human heart, or grief.
Man comes and goes, I care not whence or whither.
His sorrows touch me not, nor do his joys.—
O Grass, why listenest thou? What dost thou feel?
The Grass:
I feel the dimpled coming of sweet feet.
A Child's Soul weights me with ineffable joy.
The Rose:
What leads it hither?
The Grass:
The Shadow of a Dream.
Sweet Alyssum:
I thrill with beauty, and my flowers take on
A happier whiteness, poignancy of scent.
Mignonette:
Its young approach trembles my roots like rain;
And one by one I feel new buds in me.
The Fountain
(from a distance):
Bring it to me! bring it to me!—I'm fain
To look upon its face I see afar.
Let its pure gaze go down in me and change
My depths as starlight changes. Bring it to me.
40
(approaching):
Yea; I will bring it to thee. Have no fear.
It shall be ours. I'll make it thine and mine.
Poppy:
What is this sweet disturbance, balmed with love
As is my bloom with dew?—What shakes my heart,
Unfolding all my slumber-heavy leaves?
Some dim delirium that anticipates
Unborn desire, that gives me newer life
Before 't is asked? ... In all my opiate pods
I feel imperious perfume, that responds
To some approaching gladness.—What is this
That makes the night more beautiful than it is?
Shadow of a Dream:
A dream it is, and yet it is no dream.
A Soul it is—Soul of a little Child.
Foxglove:
What doth possess me? What enfolds my flowers?
Claims me, compels me? makes my bells one peal
Of delicate pearl, showering the anxious air
41
Marigold:
My amber dazzles into gold, like flame;
And the musked bitterness, that made my bloom
Acrid as sorrow, is grown suddenly sweet,
Touched with the moonlight of a Child's gold head.
Phlox:
Oh, what is this strange beauty over me?
Like some long flower crowned with curling fire,
Yet fairer than the fairest lily that blows,
Epitomising all of purity
And poetry in its immortal face.
The Wind:
Violets and windflowers in its heavenly hair,
Innocence it is who runs among the Flowers.
I'll breathe upon its eyes and make it mine,
And lead it to the Fountain there to play.
Shadow of a Dream:
Would'st thou mislead it?—Nay; this Soul is mine.
Hither I called it. It returns to me.
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Soul of a Child:
What voices were those that I heard, or dreamed?
'T was as if fragrance spoke. I see but Flowers,
And feel the night Wind in my dewy hair.—
I thought I heard my mother calling me.
The Wind:
Its voice is like remembered melody.
The Rose:
Or like a bud unfolding into flower.
The Wind:
A Flower that shall be mine within the hour.
Soul of a Child:
Mother! O Mother!—Did my mother call?—
Who is it whispers at my ear? and sighs
Sweet promises of something on my eyes?—
The Wind! my playmate Wind, who flings a ball
Of thistledown before me. See it bowl!
Shadow of a Dream:
Wilt thou not see me? Look at me at all?
The Wind:
Come, follow me! come with me, thou sweet Soul.
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Shadow of a Dream:
It follows the Wind. See where it dances there!
Someway, somehow, it must return to me—
It must return before those Lovers come.—
When will they come?—I dare not seek them out,
And leave the Child to wander with the Wind,
Play on the Fountain's edge that sings to it,
Luring its beauty down,—like some pale Faery
That smiling clasps, and, for its loveliness,
Slays some fair soul that listen'd to its song.—
Oh, that the Elves were here to help me now!
The fair, protecting powers that have in ward
The loveliness and innocence of earth!
[Passes on.
Poppy:
What wings, or winds, are these that bend my head?—
I feel dim feet, like moonbeams, on my hair.
[The Elves appear.
Larkspur:
O languor-laden, lift thy brows and see:
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Elves of the Moonlight:
Look at that yellow spider on yon Rose.
What a huge web he spins to catch one gnat
Or whining fly! But webs are snares for dew
As well as gnats; his wondrous diagram,
Think you he gat it from his head? or stomach?—
Wherein he carries this material,
The fluid silk, the nimbly running silver,
From which he weaves his lairs.—Old ingenuity,
Come, quit thy mathematics! thy designs!
And leave thy web,—that serves, in some grey way,
The purposes of beauty. ... Come, turn out,
Thou long-shanked spinner!—So!—Thy web remains
For dawn to rope with rain. But thou, be off!
Elves of the Starlight:
What makes the air so anxious here? What holds
With tension as of some large hope at pause,
Some purposed good perpending or per formed?—
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Moonflower:
A Child,
Who seeks its mother whom it can not find.
The Wind and Fountain lead its soul astray.
The Grass:
I felt its light feet press me and became
Its slave, albeit, as all Elfins know,
I am no servile thing. My heart is brave
With much endurance, and inured to hardship,
And strong with strength of many years of youth.
Elves of the Starlight:
Thou hast a small voice for so brave a thing.
But thou combinest littleness with greatness,
A happy union that has helped thee far
In hiding many a man-made scar of earth.
Courage is thine; nowhere thou fear'st to go.
The Grass:
Speak not to me of courage. Bring the Child.
I long to feel the pressure of its feet,
And of the feet of those for whom it seeks.
Elves of the Moonlight:
What, now, hath more integrity than Grass,
Or reverence of life, or joy in beauty!—
46
That hath designs on yon deep-bosomed Rose.
Out! thou legged gluttony, with thy bristling paunch!
Wouldst gorge on beauty always!—Not tonight!—
Weeds be thy supper in yon place of weeds.
There cram thy pulpy gullet till thou burst.
Elves of the Starlight:
O Flower of the Moon, what didst thou say?—
A Child, a Soul, the Wind hath led astray?—
There stands a shadow near it like a dream.
Moonflower:
The Shadow of a Dream that called it here
I know not why.—'T is very beautiful.
Soul of a Child
(prattling in the distance):
Come, dance with me, thou merry, merry Wind!
Come, take me by the curls and carry me,
And toss me like a puff-ball o'er the Fountain.
The Fountain:
Come here to me and lean along my marge.
Come, let me clasp thee to my foam-cold breast.
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Not yet; not yet. When I am tired of play.
When I am tired of play. Not yet; not yet.
Elves of the Moonlight:
Here is that spider's mate: come, pluck her forth,
The bloated horror! Let her follow him
Into the weeds and lay her grim snares there.
Luck send the worm and all its feverish hair
Into her clutches. May she eat and die
And so both have an end!—Now let's away.—
Elves of the Starlight:
See! there's a light within that yew-tree coigne,
Set round with thorns. It hovers o'er a grave.
Hither it comes, a Shadow trailing it.
[The SHADOW OF A DREAM appears.
Shadow of a Dream:
Worse than a Will-o'-Wisp, it will not wend
The way that I would have it.—Elfins, you,
Light people of the starbeams and the moon,
Assist me now. Drive ye that lanthorn hither;
That little light which shines so far away.
Elves of the Star- and Moon-light
(as
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Aye! we will drive it for you.—Follow, follow!
Come, brothers, hunt it from the haunted hollow.
Be it a Gnome or Goblin, Imp or Faery,
It shall come forth and show us.—Now be wary!—
It can't escape us.—Ah! you see!—Surround it.—
Well generaled, Pixies!—Out with it, and hound it!
[Circling the Firefly they chant:
Drive it, drive it!
Let it not escape!—
Keep it to the right or left.—
Drive it in a spider's weft.—
It may take some other shape—
Worm or beetle, moth or eft;
Wriggle in some crack or cleft,
In the goblin earth agape.—
Drive it, drive it!
Let it not escape.
[The Firefly appears surrounded with Elves.
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Welcome, thou wandering fire!—Thanks to you
My airy ministers of dusk and dew,
Who dance on moonbeams, and who make the rays
Of starlight your pale bridges. Go your ways;
You have performed my bidding; your reward
Shall be to tesselate with flowers this sward,
And see two souls made happy.
Elves of the Star- and Moon light:
Come away!
Our work is done here. Soon the Break of Day
Will flutter on the hills her gown of mist,
And bind her sandals on of amethyst.—
Our work is done. Come, let us go away.
Back of somewhere we feel the Break of Day.
[Elves pass on.
Firefly:
O Shadow with the eyes of Long-ago,
Pointing with violet light the golden gloom,
What wouldst thou with me? I obey thee now.
Shadow of a Dream:
Thou seest the little Child who dances there?—
50
Who wander in the darkness. Thou must know
My purpose is that it and they shall meet:
And from that meeting happiness shall grow.
Firefly
(departing in the direction of the Child):
I go, I go,
Like a will-o'-the-wisp,—
Let the Night-Wind blow
And the Fountain crisp:
From the Night-Wind's lisp
And the Fountain's flow,
I know, I know,
Like a will-o'-the-wisp,
With a glimmer of green and a flicker of gold,
I will lead the Child to the place I'm told.
[The Shadows of the Man and Woman appear.
Shadow of the Man:
Who lured our light away?—Where is it gone?—
I saw it shimmer here a moment since.—
What Shadow grows between us and the Flowers?
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The Shadow of a Dream that once you knew.
Shadow of the Man:
What Dream is that?—Many have been our Dreams,
But all have died; not one sweet Dream remains.—
But thou—thou hast the lineaments of them all. ...
Mightily thou takest me by the heartstrings here
With old, imperishable longings lost.
Soul of a Child
(in the distance):
Dance, little gleam! I'm tired of Wind and Wave.
And you are lovely as a little star.—
Twinkle again before me. Ah, you know,
I wish you 'd lead me where my mother is.
Mother! (Drawing nearer.)
Mother!—Where can my mother be?
[The Soul of a Child appears following the Firefly.
Shadow of the Woman:
Some Child is lost here in this world of Flowers.
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Dear, dancing light, to lead me and so far!—
I fear I'm lost now.—See, the Flowers sleep.
The Wind is angry with me and the Fountain
Weeps that I have departed. I am lost,
So says the Wind, and it knows everything.—
Don't leave me now!—'Tis gone.—How still it is!—
Where is my mother?—Mother!—
Shadow of a Dream:
Little Soul,
Here is thy mother and thy father too.
Shadow of the Woman:
It is our Child. She is returned to us.—
O head of gold, where hast thou been so long?
Shadow of the Man:
Thou didst not call for me, O heart of joy!—
Look in my eyes. Know'st thou thy father, Child?
Soul of a Child:
I could not see you, father, for the Flowers.—
And I have found you both?—How good God is!
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Our Child! our little Joy come back again!
Shadow of the Woman
(impulsively):
Here, take our hands and lead us from this place,
O young-eyed Innocence, whose soul is song.
Long have our hearts been grief-bound, and the night
Contained us and there was no hint of dawn.—
Long have we waited for thy coming, Sweet.
[A Cock crows in the dim distance.
All the Flowers
(as with one voice):
The Dawn! the Dawn!—It is the Dawn! the Dawn!
Shadow of a Dream:
Hold fast its hands. Now look into my eyes:
I am the Dream that long ago you dreamed,
The Dream that never dies; that led it here,
Your long-lost Child, your little Innocence,
Who holds your hands now and will lead you safe
Out of this Garden of the Shadow of Death.
Soul of a Child:
How old this Garden looks! How grey and old!—
54
Wakes on the drowsy ledges of the hills.
Grey, old, and sad; and all the Flowers are changed
To sorrowful lights that stare at me like eyes
And chill me to the heart.—Oh, let us go!—
Hold fast my hands and I will lead the way.
[They pass out of the Garden and beyond.
Shadow of the Man:
The day breaks, see! The darkness fades away.
Soul of a Child:
The darkness fades not: 't is the light that comes.
These are the heights. See, here 's the Edelweiss.
How cold and pure it looks, and so alone!—
Are Flowers ever lonesome, ever sad?
Shadow of the Woman:
All mortal things are sad and Flowers die.—
Sweet Child, thy voice thrills through me like young song.
Look! it is Morning. Mists sweep round us here,
And, oh,—the Garden!—See! the Garden 's gone!
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Look back no more. Yonder our pathway lies.
The Garden and its Flowers were merely mist,
And have returned to that from which they sprang.—
Look back no more. Morning and Joy are ours.
| The Shadow Garden | |