All the things magicians do Could be done by me and you Freely, if we only knew. Human children every day Could play at games the faeries play If they were but shown the way. Every man a God would be Laughing through eternity If as God's his eyes could see. All the wizardries of God-- Slaying matter with a nod, Charming spirits with his rod, With the singing of his voice Making lonely lands rejoice, Leaving us no will nor choice, Drawing headlong me and you As the piping Orpheus drew Man and beast the mountains through, By the sweetness of his horn Calling us from lands forlorn Nearer to the widening morn-- All that loveliness of power Could be man's peculiar dower, Even mine, this very hour; We should reach the Hidden Land And grow immortal out of hand, If we could but understand! We could revel day and night In all power and all delight If we learn to think aright. XXXII. "Our Daily Bread" We need no barbarous words nor solemn spell To raise the unknown. It lies before our feet; There have been men who sank down into Hell In some suburban street, And some there are that in their daily walks Have met archangels fresh from sight of God, Or watched how in their beans and cabbage-stalks Long files of faerie trod. Often me too the Living voices call In many a vulgar and habitual place, I catch a sight of lands beyond the wall, I see a strange god's face. And some day this work will work upon me so I shall arise and leave both friends and home And over many lands a pilgrim go Through alien woods and foam, Seeking the last steep edges of the earth Whence I may leap into that gulf of light Wherein, before my narrowing Self had birth, Part of me lived aright. XXXIII. How He Saw Angus the God I heard the swallow sing in the eaves and rose All in a strange delight while others slept, And down the creaking stair, alone, tip-toes, So carefully I crept. The house was dark with silly blinds yet drawn, But outside the clean air was filled with light, And underneath my feet the cold, wet lawn With dew was twinkling bright. The cobwebs hung from every branch and spray Gleaming with pearly strands of laden thread, And long and still the morning shadows lay Across the meadows spread. At that pure hour when yet no sound of man, Stirs in the whiteness of the wakening earth, Alone through innocent solitudes I ran Singing aloud for mirth. Till I had found the open mountain heath Yellow with gorse, and rested there and stood To gaze upon the misty sea beneath, Or on the neighbouring wood,