All around me, gliding and gleaming, Fair as a fallen sunset-sky, Butterfly wings came drifting, dreaming, Clouds of the little folk clustered nigh, Little white hands like pearls uplifted Cords of silk in shimmering skeins, Cast them about me and dreamily drifted Winding me round with their soft warm chains. XXI Round and round me they dizzily floated, Binding me faster with every turn: Crumbs, my pals would have grinned and gloated Watching me over that fringe of fern, Bill, with his battered old hat outstanding Black as a foam-swept rock to the moon, Bill, like a rainbow of silks expanding Into a beautiful big cocoon,-- XXII Big as a cloud, though his hat still crowned him, Yus, and his old boots bulged below: Seas of colour went shimmering round him, Dancing, glimmering, glancing a-glow! Bill knew well what them elves were at, sir,-- Ain't you an en-to-mol-o-gist? Well, despite of his old black hat, sir, Bill was _becoming--a chrysalist_. * * * * XXIII Muffled, smothered in a sea of emerald and opal, Down a dazzling gulf of dreams I sank and sank away, Wound about with twenty thousand yards of silken rope, all Shimmering into crimson, glimmering into grey, Drowsing, waking, living, dying, just as you regards it, Buried in a sunset-cloud, or cloud of breaking day, 'Cording as from East or West yourself might look towards it, Losing, gaining, lost in darkness, ragged, grimy, gay, 'And-cuffed, not to say Gagged, but both my shoulders budding, sprouting white as May. XXIV Sprouting like the milky buds o' hawthorn in the night-time, Pouting like the snowy buds o' roses in July, Spreading in my chrysalist and waiting for the right time, When--I thought--they'd bust to wings and Bill would rise and fly, _Tick, tack, tick, tack_, as if it came in answer, Sweeping o'er my head again the tide o' dreams went by,-- _I must get to Piddinghoe to-morrow if I can, sir,_ _Tick, tack_, a crackle in my chrysalist, a cry! Then the warm blue sky Bust the shell, and out crept Bill--a blooming butterfly! * * * * XXV Blue as a corn-flower, blazed the zenith: the deepening East like a scarlet poppy Burned while, dazzled with golden bloom, white clouds like daisies, green seas like wheat, Gripping the sign-post, first, I climbs, to sun my wings, which were wrinkled and floppy, Spreading 'em white o'er the words _No Road_, and hanging fast by my six black feet. XXVI