The primroses scattered by April, The stars of the wide Milky Way, Cannot outnumber the hosts of the children Magic hath stolen away. The buttercup green of the meadows, The snow of the blossoming may, Lovelier are not than the legions of children Magic hath stolen away. The waves tossing surf in the moonbeam, The albatross lone on the spray, Alone know the tears wept in vain for the children Magic hath stolen away. In vain: for at hush of the evening When the stars twinkle into the grey, Seems to echo the far-away calling of children Magic hath stolen away. [Illustration] THE LITTLE SALAMANDER TO MARGOT When I go free, I think 'twill be A night of stars and snow, And the wild fires of frost shall light My footsteps as I go; Nobody--nobody will be there With groping touch, or sight, To see me in my bush of hair Dance burning through the night. VOICES Who is it calling by the darkened river Where the moss lies smooth and deep, And the dark trees lean unmoving arms, Silent and vague in sleep, And the bright-heeled constellations pass In splendour through the gloom; Who is it calling o'er the darkened river In music, "Come!"? Who is it wandering in the summer meadows Where the children stoop and play In the green faint-scented flowers, spinning The guileless hours away? Who touches their bright hair? who puts A wind-shell to each cheek, Whispering betwixt its breathing silences, "Seek! seek!"? Who is it watching in the gathering twilight When the curfew bird hath flown On eager wings, from song to silence, To its darkened nest alone? Who takes for brightening eyes the stars, For locks the still moonbeam, Sighs through the dews of evening peacefully Falling, "Dream!" [Illustration] SORCERY "What voice is that I hear Crying across the pool?" "It is the voice of Pan you hear, Crying his sorceries shrill and clear, In the twilight dim and cool." "What song is it he sings, Echoing from afar; While the sweet swallow bends her wings, Filling the air with twitterings, Beneath the brightening star?" The woodman answered me, His faggot on his back:-- "Seek not the face of Pan to see; Flee from his clear note summoning thee To darkness deep and black! "He dwells in thickest shade, Piping his notes forlorn Of sorrow never to be allayed; Turn from his coverts sad Of twilight unto morn!" The woodman passed away Along the forest path; His ax shone keen and grey In the last beams of day: And all was still as death:--