So he twitched his fair ears up and down

And turned to nuzzle his shoulder brown.

XXVIII. Ballade Mystique

The big, red-house is bare and lone

The stony garden waste and sere

With blight of breezes ocean blown

To pinch the wakening of the year;

My kindly friends with busy cheer

My wretchedness could plainly show.

They tell me I am lonely here--

What do they know? What do they know?

They think that while the gables moan

And easements creak in winter drear

I should be piteously alone

Without the speech of comrades dear;

And friendly for my sake they fear,

It grieves them thinking of me so

While all their happy life is near--

What do they know? What do they know?

That I have seen the Dagda's throne

In sunny lands without a tear

And found a forest all my own

To ward with magic shield and spear,

Where, through the stately towers I rear

For my desire, around me go

Immortal shapes of beauty clear:

They do not know, they do not know.


The friends I have without a peer

Beyond the western ocean's glow,

Whither the faerie galleys steer,

They do not know: how should they know?

XXIX. Night

I know a little Druid wood

Where I would slumber if I could

And have the murmuring of the stream

To mingle with a midnight dream,

And have the holy hazel trees

To play above me in the breeze,

And smell the thorny eglantine;

For there the white owls all night long

In the scented gloom divine

Hear the wild, strange, tuneless song

Of faerie voices, thin and high

As the bat's unearthly cry,

And the measure of their shoon

Dancing, dancing, under the moon,

Until, amid the pale of dawn

The wandering stars begin to swoon. . . .

Ah, leave the world and come away!

The windy folk are in the glade,

And men have seen their revels, laid

In secret on some flowery lawn

Underneath the beechen covers,

Kings of old, I've heard them say,

Here have found them faerie lovers

That charmed them out of life and kissed

Their lips with cold lips unafraid,

And such a spell around them made

That they have passed beyond the mist

And found the Country-under-wave. . . .

Kings of old, whom none could save!

XXX. Oxford

It is well that there are palaces of peace

And discipline and dreaming and desire,

Lest we forget our heritage and cease

The Spirit's work-to hunger and aspire:

Lest we forget that we were born divine,

Now tangled in red battle's animal net,

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