The whole world like a bell heard echoingly. Words wonderful! I found a fairy bed And saw that which the wildwood let me see. (O Little Wind that brought me what it said!) III: NIGHT IS HERE Night is here and star-rise And demeanour of the dark. Visioned by my closed eyes Now I lie within an arc. Lyric loom, All the silence is a-hark For a poppy bud to bloom In some flowery harmony Woven through this quiet room. Prick of light and shadow take me, Fire and stars and voices keep, Fairy clamour will not wake me ... ... Sleep. But that warm grave of sleep Nothing save myself immures. Singing light and dreaming deep Now my spirit walks with yours. BALLADES OF THREE SENSES I BALLADE OF EYES THAT SEE Leaves loosened when there blow No winds; long fields whose green Dim beneath the darling bow Of the May-moon is seen; Robins at dawn; the keen Sour odour of vines--these show Frail meanings caught between The bourne of yes and no. Yet there is tender art To fathom what they mean, Deep in the heart. I go among them. Now I lean Where willows fret the flow Of water that has been For miles to glean. And in the osiers--O An ouphe, an elfin queen. I did not see her--lo, The osiers did not part, Yet she was there I ween, Deep in the heart. _Envoy_ Spells, lay upon the screen The things that move me so. I ask the better part: To see with eyes serene What things these others know---- Deep in the heart. II BALLADE OF LISTENING On summer slopes lit white With old desire of day, The air with pearl bedight Prepares for gold array. The sun-drugged stars delay To die; the winds take fright And question, and betray Frail sounds for my delight. O voice of ancient springs! O little echo-flight! O harp of things! In grasses that lie bright, In grasses that lie grey, Up on the clouded height Down in the zone of May Are printless feet astray. Airy the hands that smite The lyre in nameless lay; And the great gods invite Echo of earth chantings On quiet wing away. O--harp of things! _Envoy_ Harp, is it this that you say? “Delicate is my might, Quickening the voice that sings; For I am sense grown fey. I am word of the morn and the night.” O harp of things! III BALLADE OF OLD PERFUMES Now out of dream old springs Flow soft with many red And golden fluttering things. Sweetly from underhead All the wan air is fed With faint rememberings Of hours long buried. Rose-rumours steal and stir; They come on wind-like wings. The old odours that were Nard and mint and myrrh.