Oh, they spread out their silver webs Upon the moonlit grass, Their wee bright webs of faërie, To catch the Dreams that pass. The wistful dream that stole from me And crept away to you, They tangled it in glistering knots Of witchery and dew. And whisht! Your bashful little thought, So innocent and bright, Got trapped in that same silver web And kept with mine all night. Then ah! Whatever shall we do Upon to-morrow day, Our dreams are snared together so And cannot slip away? THE FAIRY FORT As I went by the fairy fort I heard a laughing wee voice say— “Whisht! Be these humans rale at all? I’ll not believe it, nay!” “Aye, but ye see the crayturs plain?” “But seein’ niver makes it true, No more that not to see be proof; ’Tis what they think and do. “They just have faith in what they see, And they be blind as midday owls— Except the little childher dear, And some with childher sowls. “They chase unrale things all day long— Money and aise and fame and power— With niver time to pipe and dream, Or gossip with a flower. “Such stupid things they be, and quare! I’ll not believe in them, not I! Come, let us pipe a rale, true lilt, And lave the crayturs by.” As I went by the fairy fort I heard a piping sweet and small; I wonder, are the Wee Folk real, Or am I real at all? PEACE—WITH A SWORD! “ENSE PETIT PLACIDAM SUB LIBERTATE QUIETEM” (_Motto of Massachusetts_) Peace! How we love her and the good she brings On broad, benignant wings! And we have clung to her, how close and long, While she has made us strong! Now we must guard her lest her power cease, And in the harried world be no more peace. Even with a sword; Help us, O Lord. For us no patient peace, the weary goal Of a war-sickened soul; No peace that battens on misfortune’s pain, Swollen with selfish gain, Bending slack knees before a calf of gold, With nerveless fingers impotent to hold The freeman’s sword: Not this, O Lord!