He leaned upon his foursquare bed, His thumb beneath his chin; Hearkening after that which had stirred The dream that he was in. The old, old King of Cumberland Muttered, "Twas not the sea, Gushing upon Shlievlisskin rocks, That wakened me. "Thunder from midmost night it was not; For yonder at the bars Burn to their summer setting her Clear constellated stars." The old, old King of Cumberland Mused yet, "Rats ever did Rove from their holes, and clink my spurs, And gnaw my coverlid. "Oft hath a little passing breeze Along this valance stirred; But in this stagnant calm 'twas not The wind I heard. "Some keener, stranger, quieter, closer Voice it was me woke...." And silence, like a billow, drowned The word he spoke. His chamber walls were cloaked with dark; Shadow did thickly brood, And in the vague, all-listening night A presence stood.... Sudden a gigantic hand he thrust Into his bosom cold, Where now no surging restless beat Its long tale told: Swept on him then, as there he sate, Terror icy chill; 'Twas silence that had him awoke-- His heart stood still. [Illustration] THE LITTLE GREEN ORCHARD [Illustration] Some one is always sitting there, In the little green orchard; Even when the sun is high In noon's unclouded sky, And faintly droning goes The bee from rose to rose, Some one in shadow is sitting there, In the little green orchard. Yes, and when twilight is falling softly In the little green orchard; When the grey dew distils And every flower-cup fills; When the last blackbird says, "What--what!" and goes her way--s-sh! I have heard voices calling softly In the little green orchard. Not that I am afraid of being there, In the little green orchard; Why, when the moon's been bright, Shedding her lonesome light, And moths like ghosties come, And the horned snail leaves home: I've sat there, whispering and listening there, In the little green orchard. Only it's strange to be feeling there, In the little green orchard; Whether you paint or draw, Dig, hammer, chop, or saw; When you are most alone, All but the silence gone ... Some one is waiting and watching there, In the little green orchard. THE TRUANTS [Illustration] Ere my heart beats too coldly and faintly To remember sad things, yet be gay, I would sing a brief song of the world's little children Magic hath stolen away.