And when your prayers complete the day, Darling, your little tiny hands Were also made, I think, to pray For men that lose their fairylands. DEDICATION OF A CHILD’S BOOK OF IMAGINARY TALES WHEREIN WRONG-DOERS SUFFER And is it true? It is not true! And if it was it wouldn’t do For people such as me and you, Who very nearly all day long Are doing something rather wrong. HOMAGE I There is a light around your head Which only Saints of God may wear, And all the flowers on which you tread In pleasaunce more than ours have fed, And supped the essential air Whose summer is a-pulse with music everywhere. II For you are younger than the mornings are That in the mountains break; When upland shepherds see their only star Pale on the dawn, and make In his surcease the hours, The early hours of all their happy circuit take. FILLE-LA-HAINE Death went into the steeple to ring, And he pulled the rope and he tolled a knell. Fille-la-Haine, how well you sing! Why are they ringing the Passing Bell? _Death went into the steeple to ring; Fille-la-Haine, how well you sing!_ Death went down the stream in a boat, Down the river of Seine went he; Fille-la-Haine had a pain in her throat, Fille-la-Haine was nothing to me. _Death went down the stream in a boat; Fille-la-Haine had a pain in her throat._ Death went up the hill in a cart (I have forgotten her lips and her laughter). Fille-la-Haine was my sweetheart (And all the village was following after). _Death went up the hill in a cart. Fille-la-Haine was my sweetheart._ THE MOON’S FUNERAL I The Moon is dead. I saw her die. She in a drifting cloud was drest, She lay along the uncertain west, A dream to see. And very low she spake to me: “I go where none may understand, I fade into the nameless land, And there must lie perpetually.” And therefore I, And therefore loudly, loudly I And high And very piteously make cry: “The Moon is dead. I saw her die.” II And will she never rise again? The Holy Moon? Oh, never more! Perhaps along the inhuman shore Where pale ghosts are Beyond the low lethean fen She and some wide infernal star-- To us who loved her never more, The Moon will never rise again. Oh! never more in nightly sky Her eye so high shall peep and pry To see the great world rolling by. For why? The Moon is dead. I saw her die. THE HAPPY JOURNALIST I love to walk about at night By nasty lanes and corners foul, All shielded from the unfriendly light And independent as the owl. By dirty grates I love to lurk; I often stoop to take a squint At printers working at their work. I muse upon the rot they print. The beggars please me, and the mud: The editors beneath their lamps As--Mr. Howl demanding blood, And Lord Retender stealing stamps,