Faeries must be in the woods Or the satyrs' laughing broods-- Tritons in the summer sea, Else how could the dead things be Half so lovely as they are? How could wealth of star on star Dusted o'er the frosty night Fill thy spirit with delight And lead thee from this care of thine Up among the dreams divine, Were it not that each and all Of them that walk the heavenly hall Is in truth a happy isle, Where eternal meadows smile, And golden globes of fruit are seen Twinkling through the orchards green; Were the Other People go On the bright sward to and fro? Atoms dead could never thus Stir the human heart of us Unless the beauty that we see The veil of endless beauty be, Filled full of spirits that have trod Far hence along the heavenly sod And see the bright footprints of God. XXVII. The Ass I woke and rose and slipt away To the heathery hills in the morning grey. In a field where the dew lay cold and deep I met an ass, new-roused from sleep. I stroked his nose and I tickled his ears, And spoke soft words to quiet his fears. His eyes stared into the eyes of me And he kissed my hands of his courtesy. "O big, brown brother out of the waste, How do thistles for breakfast taste? "And do you rejoice in the dawn divine With a heart that is glad no less than mine? "For, brother, the depth of your gentle eyes Is strange and mystic as the skies: "What are the thoughts that grope behind, Down in the mist of a donkey mind? "Can it be true, as the wise men tell, That you are a mask of God as well, "And, as in us, so in you no less Speaks the eternal Loveliness, "And words of the lips that all things know Among the thoughts of a donkey go? "However it be, O four-foot brother, Fair to-day is the earth, our mother. "God send you peace and delight thereof, And all green meat of the waste you love, "And guard you well from violent men Who'd put you back in the shafts again." But the ass had far too wise a head To answer one of the things I said, So he twitched his fair ears up and down And turned to nuzzle his shoulder brown. XXVIII. Ballade Mystique The big, red-house is bare and lone The stony garden waste and sere With blight of breezes ocean blown To pinch the wakening of the year; My kindly friends with busy cheer My wretchedness could plainly show. They tell me I am lonely here-- What do they know? What do they know?