University of Virginia Library

WHEN the end of the enchantment of the Summer is at hand,
In the month that closes
The blue Midsummer weather,
When the passionate red roses
Faint for the heat
And the lilies fold together
Their petals pale and sweet,—
In the burning noontide hazes
And the golden glory of the flowers that blazes
Over the happy valleys and the wold,
There swells to me a breeze ofttimes
Out of the dreams of old.
And in the breeze the murmur of old rhymes
Rises and falls,
Like some enchanted singing,
And my tired brow is fanned
By odours from the halls
Of dreamland, such as in the moonlight white
Float round a wandering knight,
When through the country of the elves he fares
And marvels at the dances,
That glitter through the moon-glow, and the ringing
Of elfin bells;
And through the fluttering of the frolic airs,
In all the song there swells
A voice well known to me of bygone days,
That calls me to forsake
The weary worldly ways
And as of olden times my way to take
Into the dreamland of the old romances,
Into the enchanted land.

Down falls the evening on the weary plains,
And I, I stand and wait
Where, at the verge
Of the green fields, the stains
Of sunlight fade upon the trees that surge
Out of the falling night,
Dim as the dreamland's gate.
And so there comes to me a flash of light
Across the shadow and my faint eyes know
The robe of her I love
And the bright crown of tresses aureoled,
Star-glorious, above
Her face's rosy snow,
Spangling the shades with gold.
‘Sweet love, sweet welcome! I had need of thee,
Sore, sorest need!’
Still doth she grow
Nearer and lovelier till my arms may press
Almost her charms and all my soul may feed
Upon her loveliness.
But lo! I clasp the wind
And in mine arms entwined
Is nothing but a fair and painted dream.
‘Dear love, why dost thou seem
And torture me with hope in vain?’
And the fair shape doth weep
And comforteth my pain
With lovely looks and words of amity;
And so my yearnings sleep
And there is peace once more for me.

‘Come, love,’ she saith, ‘the dream-gates gape for thee.
The hour of glamorous delight
Is come for thee and me.
Under the silver night
We shall walk hand in hand
In the enchanted land
And see the moon-flowers blossom to the sound
Of the sweet elfin tune,
As in the days gone by.
Dost thou not hear the horns of Faerie wound
Among the elfland bowers
And all the rush of splendid song that floods
The silver winds that lie
And idle in the pearl-work of the moon,
Woven about the woods?
Come, love! the day is dead,
With all its weary hours,
And ours is newly born.
Thou shalt have easance of thy woes this night,
Amid the glory of the flowers that swoon
With magical delight,
Ere in the sky creeps up the weary morn
And the pale East grows red.’

So, in the pale faint flush of the twilight,
Softly I ope the door
And hand in hand,
Across the fields we go, before
The day is parted from the night,
Among the cloisters where the tall trees stand,
White in the woodland ways,
Under the moonlight, till a wall of mist
Rises before us in the evening haze,
Silver and amethyst.
Then doth my love loose hands
And in the spangled green
Of the thick moss she stands
Within the wood-verge, where the sun has been
And is not faded quite;
And to the hovering night
Sweet mystic lays
And songs she singeth, very pure and high,
Until there answereth
From out the heart-green of the woodbine maze
A magic singing, as it were
A woven music of the scents that lie
In all the night-flowers' breath;
And with the song upon the fragrant air
Strange mystic memories do swell and die
Of Love and Life and Death.

The gate of dreamland opens to the singing
And hand in hand we go,
My love and I,
Along the woodways with the elf-songs ringing,
Under the silver night;
And down the vistas of the trees, that lie
And bathe in the moonlight,
There swells to us a murmur sweet and low,
As of some magic river,
That glitters through its ranks of waving reeds
And makes the flower-bells quiver
With haunting melodies;
And from its ferny nest
The runnel of a brooklet sings and speeds
Across the pearlèd network of the grass,
Murmuring its loveliest,
Songs of a heart at ease,
That in its joy doth pass
Into a tune; and lo!
Upon the diamond ripples to our feet
A little shallop floats,
Out of a rush-work woven all and wrought
With pearls and ivory.
Then in the skiff do we
Embark and down the silver stream we fleet,
Under the thronging notes
Of the night-birds;
And as we go,
The air is all astir with lovely things;
Sweet music, twinned and fair with magic words,
Rises from elfin throats,
And in the leaves we see the rush and glow
Of jewelled wings.

There lies all glamour in the arching banks,
Through which our river runs:
Over us wing the dreams
And in the pale sweet trances of the moon,
Along the stretching glades,
The silver fawns of Faërie do pass,
White in the sweet white beams;
And now and then the tune
Of horns is clear
And the elf-hunt sweeps by, with glittering ranks,
Across the velvet grass:
The king's tall knightly sons
Ride through the aisles, with many a doucepere;
And now there comes a throng
Of snow-white maids,
Gold-haired,
That with sweet song
And pleasance wander in the fragrant maze
Of the cool woodland ways,
Sweet one with sweet one paired,
All through the summer night,
And win the enchanted air
Unto melodious trances with the ring
Of their flute-voices and the rare delight
Of their gold-rippled hair,
Soft as the songs they sing.

The high trees bend above us lovingly,
As on the stream we go,
Mingling their boughs above
Into a flower-starred roof
Of lovely greenery;
And through the night
The fireflies glow
And glitter, as it were
The stars had left their places for delight
And through the woodland air
Sped, singing.
The stream makes music to the cleaving prow,
Answering the birds' descant
And the soft ringing
Of bindweed bells.
The night is filled with spells
Of old delight;
The summer air is hazed and jubilant
With ripples of the glory of song-gold
And elfin blisses;
And in the lovely light,
A maiden more than earthly fair to see,
With moon-webs aureoled,
My lady sits by me,
Answering my thought with kisses.

The river shallows through the grass and flowers,
Athwart the waning night;
And now the boat is gone
From underneath our feet;
And eke the stream has faded
Into the ripple of the white moonlight.
So, in the midwood bowers
I stand alone
In the still time and sweet
Before the hour when night and morning meet.
Sweet sooth, the moon has braided
The air with pearl
And down the haunted glades
The shadows dance and whirl
Among the sheeny hosts of the grass-blades,
In the cool glitter of the time:
And lo! my thought takes rhythm from their dances
And to my lips comes rhyme
And many a lovely tune,
Such as the minstrels of the old romances
Sang to the moon.

My singing echoes through the elfland aisles,
Waking the silver bells,
That lie and dream in the flower-sleep,
Deep in the mossy dells;
And as I sing,
The timid rabbits creep
From all their soft warm nests among the fern;
And in the wood-deeps, gold and silver strewn,
The fawns stand listening.
Then down the columned way,
Through which the moonlight smiles,
There rings the trample of a horse's feet.
Nearer it grows along the ripple-play,
Beside the tinkling burn,
Until the silver armour of a knight
Shines in the moon
And a clear voice trolls songs of war and love,
Ditties of strange and mystical delight,
That through the trees do rove,
Telling of Day and Night,
Of Love and Life and Death,
With strains as bright and sweet
As is the linnet's breath.

My weak song ceases as I look on him:
‘Fair knight,
Fair minstrel, teach me all thy might.
I know thee as of old:
Clear through the twilight of the legends dim,
Thy name like gold
Doth shine
And the fair nobleness of thy white life
Sweetens the lips of men,
O Percivale, Christ's knight!’
And then he gazes on me with mild eyes
And the clear rapture floods me like a wine
Of some old Orient tale,
Purging my heart from sighs
And memories of strife.
And so he rides into the gloaming pale,
Scattering on every hand
Sweet singings, till they die upon the ear.
Then, looking round again,
I see the night has ceased
And in the dawning drear
My dream fades from me, as the skies are spanned
By the red bars of morn
And in the East
The cold gray day is born.