Louder and louder grew the voice, until A figure specked the heaven-touching hill, And nearer, nearer, still ... The villagers in mingled fear and awe Stood round on tiptoe waiting. Soon they saw A little sylvan man with beckoning eyes And limbs of lithe expression. Woven flowers And grasses, splashed with rainbow-tinted showers, And jewelled with alluring butterflies, Enwrapped him. Russet face, clear-featured, gay As pebble-rumpled streams, and tousled hair Sun-dyed and naked. His limbs were bronzed and bare, And sprang, it seemed, from the wild interplay Of flower-woven garb. Around his waist Twined traveller’s-joy and honeysuckle, sweet And freshly dewed, and on his lissom feet Were pointed shoes of silver beech rush-laced. The village gazed in silence, till a child Began:--“Who are you, funny man? Your face seems to be telling truth, your eyes Are just the colour of blue butterflies, O tell us who you are?” The stranger smiled, And turned his face that bore the wistful, far, Strange wonder-look of one whose dreams come true, Who delves in darkened quarries of his brain Unhoped-for gold, and changes old to new As Spring rejuvenates the earth again. Of one who plays Narcissus in Life’s pool And sees an image strangely beautiful ... Then suddenly they heard him cry:-- “Come buy, I own the laughing earth. And all my chanted words are deeds; I follow where my fancy leads, And sell my songs for mirth. What will you buy? “Speak hurriedly, and choose your song, The poplar’s shadow creeps along, Search hurriedly the Earth and Sky, What will you buy?” Meanwhile a crowd had gathered, in a ring; The butcher, grocer, postman, parson, clerk, And all the village, open-mouthed and stark, Stood mutely marvelling; And children clamoured round him with large eyes And pelted him for songs, like countless hail, With pleadings, shouts and cries:-- Sing us a song of Paradise, Of railway engines, fawns, Of stolen queens in guarded towers, Of sprites and leprechauns”-- O HUSH! All were dumb-- “Boy in blue smock, sucking your thumb, With hair like a tangled chrysanthemum, What would you like me to sing, Ocean-eyed?” Loud the boy’s answer rang, “_I_ want a song of flowers!” And this is the song he sang: “Sisters of mercy are Cyclamen, Snowdrops and Arums too, But Primulus, Violets, Stocks, Mignonette, Crocus aflame, and the Never Forget, Are chaster than chastity too. Now sulphur Laburnum and Lilac, adieu, Good-bye April children to you! For who Will climb up the flowers of my Hollyhock towers With butterfly steeple-jacks blue?