O mirror on fair Heaven's wall, We find there what we bring. So, let us smile in honest part And deck our souls and sing. Yea, by the chastened jest alone Will ghosts and terrors pass, And fays, or suchlike friendly things, Throw kisses through the glass. II. On the Garden-wall Oh, once I walked a garden In dreams. 'Twas yellow grass. And many orange-trees grew there In sand as white as glass. The curving, wide wall-border Was marble, like the snow. I walked that wall a fairy-prince And, pacing quaint and slow, Beside me were my pages, Two giant, friendly birds. Half-swan they were, half peacock. They spake in courtier-words. Their inner wings a chariot, Their outer wings for flight, They lifted me from dreamland. We bade those trees good-night. Swiftly above the stars we rode. I looked below me soon. The white-walled garden I had ruled Was one lone flower--the moon. III. Written for a Musician Hungry for music with a desperate hunger I prowled abroad, I threaded through the town; The evening crowd was clamoring and drinking, Vulgar and pitiful--my heart bowed down-- Till I remembered duller hours made noble By strangers clad in some surprising grace. Wait, wait, my soul, your music comes ere midnight Appearing in some unexpected place With quivering lips, and gleaming, moonlit face. IV. The Moon is a Painter He coveted her portrait. He toiled as she grew gay. She loved to see him labor In that devoted way. And in the end it pleased her, But bowed him more with care. Her rose-smile showed so plainly, Her soul-smile was not there. That night he groped without a lamp To find a cloak, a book, And on the vexing portrait By moonrise chanced to look. The color-scheme was out of key, The maiden rose-smile faint, But through the blessed darkness She gleamed, his friendly saint. The comrade, white, immortal, His bride, and more than bride-- The citizen, the sage of mind, For whom he lived and died. V. The Encyclopaedia "If I could set the moon upon This table," said my friend, "Among the standard poets And brochures without end, And noble prints of old Japan, How empty they would seem, By that encyclopaedia Of whim and glittering dream." VI. What the Miner in the Desert Said The moon's a brass-hooped water-keg, A wondrous water-feast. If I could climb the ridge and drink And give drink to my beast; If I could drain that keg, the flies Would not be biting so, My burning feet be spry again, My mule no longer slow. And I could rise and dig for ore, And reach my fatherland, And not be food for ants and hawks And perish in the sand. VII. What the Coal-heaver Said