THE FLOWER OF OLD JAPAN
[Illustration]
THE FLOWER OF OLD
JAPAN
AND OTHER POEMS
BY
ALFRED NOYES
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.
1907
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1907,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up and electrotyped. Published June, 1907.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
‘O ciel! toute la Chine est par terre en morceaux!
Ce vase pâle et doux comme un reflet des eaux,
Couvert d’oiseaux, de fleurs, de fruits, et des mensonges
De ce vague idéal qui sort du bleu des songes,
Ce vase unique, étrange, impossible, engourdi,
Gardant sur lui le clair de lune en plein midi,
Qui paraissait vivant, où luisait une flamme,
Qui semblait presque un monstre et semblait presque une âme.’
--VICTOR HUGO (_Le Pot Cassé_).
To
CAROL
A Little Maiden
of Miyako
PREFACE
It is a perilous adventure--the writing of a preface, however brief, to
one’s own poems. For one may be tempted to re-state matters that could
find their full elucidation only in the verses themselves. Tennyson once
remarked that poetry is like shot silk, glancing with many colours; and
any attempt to define its meanings is as great a mistake as the attempt
of nineteenth-century materialism to enclose the infinite universe in
its logical nut-shells. Through poetry alone, whether of deeds or words,
thought or colour, passion or marble, is it possible to approach the
Infinite, or as Blake did:--
‘To see a world in a grain of sand,
A heaven in a wild flower;
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand,
And Eternity in an hour.’
But this revelation is the sole end and object of all true art; and I
hope it may not be thought presumptuous to say here simply
that--whether the attempt be a success or a failure--it was especially
my own aim in the two following poems. If the feet of childhood are set
dancing in them, it was because as children we are best able to enter
into that Kingdom of Dreams which is also the only true, the only real,
Kingdom. The first tale, for instance, must not be taken to have any
real relation to Japan. It belongs--as the _Spectator_ put it--to the
kind of dreamland which an imaginative child might construct out of the
oddities of a willow-pattern plate, and it differs chiefly from
Wonderlands of the Lewis Carrol type in a certain seriousness behind its
fantasy. It is astonishing to me that these things require comment; but
undoubtedly they do. For, on the one hand, the first tale has been
praised enthusiastically as a vivid picture of Japan, and the author has
not only had to correspond with Tokyo on the subject, but was also
invited to meetings of the Japan Society in London! On the other hand,
because the child-voices are allowed to declare that Tusitala lies
asleep in that distant country of dreams, a prosaic English critic once
wrote a lengthy review in an important paper to point out my gross
ignorance of the fact that Stevenson was really buried in Samoa! The
tales are ‘such stuff as dreams are made on’; but--as a kinder critic
has remarked--‘we ourselves are made of that stuff.’ It is perhaps
because these poems are almost light enough for a nonsense-book that I
feel there is something in them more elemental, more essential, more
worthy of serious consideration, than the most ponderous philosophical
poem I could write. They are based on the fundamental and very simple
mystery of the universe--that anything, even a grain of sand, should
exist at all. If we could understand that, we could understand
everything! Set clear of all irrelevancies, that is the simple problem
that has been puzzling all the ages; and it is well sometimes to forget
our accumulated ‘knowledge’ and return to it in all its childish
_naïveté_. It is well to face that inconceivable miracle, that
fundamental impossibility which happens to have been possible, that
contradiction in terms, that fundamental paradox, for which we have at
best only a cruciform symbol, with its arms pointing in opposite
directions and postulating, at once, an infinite God.
The inscription on the “Wisdom Looking-Glass”; the discovery by the
children that the self-limitation of their little wishes was necessary
not only to their own happiness, but to the harmony of the whole world;
the development of the same idea in the passages leading up to the
song--_What does it take to make a rose?_--where a _divine_ act of
loving self-limitation, an eternal self-sacrifice, an everlasting
passion of the Godhead, such as perhaps was shadowed forth on Calvary,
is found to be at the heart of the Universe, and to be--as it were--the
highest aspect of the Paradox aforesaid, the living secret and price of
our very existence; these things are only one twisted strand of the
‘shot silk’ out of which the two tales are woven. It is no new wisdom to
regard these things through the eyes of little children; and I
know--however insignificant they may be to others--these two tales
contain as deep and true things as I, personally, have the power to
express. I hope, therefore, that I may be pardoned, in these hurried
days, for pointing out that the two poems are not to be taken merely as
fairy-tales, but as an attempt to follow the careless and happy feet of
childhood back into the kingdom of those dreams which, as we said above,
are the sole reality worth living and dying for; those beautiful dreams,
or those fantastic jests--if any care to call them so--for which mankind
has endured so many triumphant martyrdoms that even amidst the rush and
roar of modern materialism they cannot be quite forgotten.
ALFRED NOYES.
PERSONS OF THE TALE
OURSELVES.
THE TALL THIN MAN.
THE DWARF BEHIND THE TWISTED PEAR-TREE.
CREEPING SIN.
THE MAD MOONSHEE.
THE NAMELESS ONE.
Pirates, Mandarins, Bonzes, Priests, Jugglers, Merchants, Ghastroi,
Weirdrians, etc.
PRELUDE
You that have known the wonder zone
Of islands far away;
You that have heard the dinky bird
And roamed in rich Cathay;
You that have sailed o’er unknown seas
To woods of Amfalula trees
Where craggy dragons play:
Oh, girl or woman, boy or man,
You’ve plucked the Flower of Old Japan!
Do you remember the blue stream;
The bridge of pale bamboo;
The path that seemed a twisted dream
Where everything came true;
The purple cherry-trees; the house
With jutting eaves below the boughs;
The mandarins in blue,
With tiny, tapping, tilted toes,
And curious curved mustachios?
_The road to Old Japan!_ you cry,
_And is it far or near?_
Some never find it till they die;
Some find it everywhere;
The road where restful Time forgets
His weary thoughts and wild regrets
And calls the golden year
Back in a fairy dream to smile
On young and old a little while.
Some seek it with a blazing sword,
And some with old blue plates;
Some with a miser’s golden hoard;
Some with a book of dates;
Some with a box of paints; a few
Whose loads of truth would ne’er pass through
The first, white, fairy gates;
And, oh, how shocked they are to find
That truths are false when left behind!
Do you remember all the tales
That Tusitala told,
When first we plunged thro’ purple vales
In quest of buried gold?
Do you remember how he said
That if we fell and hurt our head
Our hearts must still be bold,
And we must never mind the pain
But rise up and go on again?
Do you remember? yes; I know
You must remember still:
He left us, not so long ago,
Carolling with a will,
Because he knew that he should lie
Under the comfortable sky
Upon a lonely hill,
In Old Japan, when day was done;
“Dear Robert Louis Stevenson.”
And there he knew that he should find
The hills that haunt us now;
The whaups that cried upon the wind
His heart remembered how;
And friends he loved and left, to roam
Far from the pleasant hearth of home,
Should touch his dreaming brow;
Where fishes fly and birds have fins,
And children teach the mandarins.
Ah, let us follow, follow far
Beyond the purple seas;
Beyond the rosy foaming bar,
The coral reef, the trees,
The land of parrots, and the wild
That rolls before the fearless child
Its ancient mysteries:
Onward and onward, if we can,
To Old Japan--to Old Japan.
PART I
EMBARKATION
When the firelight, red and clear,
Flutters in the black wet pane,
It is very good to hear
Howling winds and trotting rain:
It is very good indeed,
When the nights are dark and cold,
Near the friendly hearth to read
Tales of ghosts and buried gold.
So with cosy toes and hands
We were dreaming, just like you;
Till we thought of palmy lands
Coloured like a cockatoo;
All in drowsy nursery nooks
Near the clutching fire we sat,
Searching quaint old story-books
Piled upon the furry mat.
Something haunted us that night
Like a half-remembered name;
Worn old pages in that light
Seemed the same, yet not the same:
Curling in the pleasant heat
Smoothly as a shell-shaped fan,
O! they breathed and smelt so sweet
When we turned to Old Japan!
Suddenly we thought we heard
Someone tapping on the wall,
Tapping, tapping like a bird,
Till a panel seemed to fall
Quietly; and a tall thin man
Stepped into the glimmering room,
And he held a little fan,
And he waved it in the gloom.
Curious reds, and golds, and greens
Danced before our startled eyes,
Birds from painted Indian screens,
Beads, and shells, and dragon-flies;
Wings, and flowers, and scent, and flame,
Fans and fish and heliotrope;
Till the magic air became
Like a dream kaleidoscope.
Then he told us of a land
Far across a fairy sea;
And he waved his thin white hand
Like a flower, melodiously;
While a red and blue macaw
Perched upon his pointed head,
And as in a dream, we saw
All the curious things he said.
Tucked in tiny palanquins,
Magically swinging there,
Flowery-kirtled mandarins
Floated through the scented air;
Wandering dogs and prowling cats
Grinned at fish in painted lakes;
Cross-legged conjurers on mats
Fluted low to listening snakes.
Fat black bonzes on the shore
Watched where singing, faint and far,
Boys in long blue garments bore
Roses in a golden jar.
While at carven dragon ships
Floating o’er that silent sea,
Squat-limbed gods with dreadful lips
Leered and smiled mysteriously.
Like an idol, shrined alone,
Watched by secret oval eyes,
Where the ruby wishing-stone
Smouldering in the darkness lies,
Anyone that wanted things
Touched the jewel and they came:
We were wealthier than kings
If we could but do the same.
Yes; we knew a hundred ways
We might use it if we could;
To be happy all our days
As an Indian in a wood;
No more daily lesson task,
No more sorrow, no more care;
So we thought that we would ask
If he’d kindly lead us there.
Ah! but then he waved his fan,
And he vanished through the wall;
Yet as in a dream, we ran
Tumbling after, one and all;
Never pausing once to think,
Panting after him we sped;
For we saw his robe of pink
Floating backward as he fled.
Down a secret passage deep,
Under roofs of spidery stairs,
Where the bat-winged nightmares creep,
And a sheeted phantom glares
Rushed we; ah! how strange it was
Where no human watcher stood;
Till we reached a gate of glass
Opening on a flowery wood.
Where the rose-pink robe had flown,
Borne by swifter feet than ours,
On to Wonder-Wander town,
Through the wood of monstrous flowers;
Mailed in monstrous gold and blue
Dragon-flies like peacocks fled;
Butterflies like carpets, too,
Softly fluttered overhead.
Down the valley, tip-a-toe,
Where the broad-limbed giants lie
Snoring, as when long ago
Jack on a bean-stalk scaled the sky;
Slowly, softly towards the town
Stole we past old dreams again,
Castles long since battered down,
Dungeons of forgotten pain.
Noonday brooded on the wood,
Evening caught us ere we crept
Where a twisted pear-tree stood,
And a dwarf behind it slept;
Round his scraggy throat he wore,
Knotted tight, a scarlet scarf;
Timidly we watched him snore,
For he seemed a surly dwarf.
Yet, he looked so very small,
He could hardly hurt us much;
We were nearly twice as tall,
So we woke him with a touch
Gently, and in tones polite,
Asked him to direct our path;
O! his wrinkled eyes grew bright
Green with ugly gnomish wrath.
He seemed to choke,
And gruffly spoke,
“You’re lost: deny it, if you can!
You want to know
The way to go?
There’s no such place as Old Japan.
“You want to seek--
No, no, don’t speak!
You mean you want to steal a fan.
You want to see
The fields of tea?
They don’t grow tea in Old Japan.
“In China, well
Perhaps you’d smell
The cherry bloom: that’s if you ran
A million miles
And jumped the stiles,
And never dreamed of Old Japan.
“What, palanquins,
And mandarins?
And, what d’you say, a blue divan?
And what? Hee! hee!
You’ll never see
A pig-tailed head in Old Japan.
“You’d take away
The ruby, hey?
I never heard of such a plan!
Upon my word
It’s quite absurd
There’s not a gem in Old Japan!
“Oh, dear me, no!
You’d better go
Straight home again, my little man:
Ah, well, you’ll see
But don’t blame me;
I don’t believe in Old Japan.”
Then, before we could obey,
O’er our startled heads he cast,
Spider-like, a webby grey
Net that held us prisoned fast;
How we screamed, he only grinned,
It was such a lonely place;
And he said we should be pinned
In his human beetle-case.
Out he dragged a monstrous box
From a cave behind the tree!
It had four-and-twenty locks,
But he could not find the key,
And his face grew very pale
When a sudden voice began
Drawing nearer through the vale,
Singing songs of Old Japan.
SONG
_Satin sails in a crimson dawn_
_Over the silky silver sea;_
_Purple veils of the dark withdrawn;_
_Heavens of pearl and porphyry;_
_Purple and white in the morning light_
_Over the water the town we knew,_
_In tiny state, like a willow-plate,_
_Shone, and behind it the hills were blue._
_There, we remembered, the shadows pass_
_All day long like dreams in the night;_
_There, in the meadows of dim blue grass,_
_Crimson daisies are ringed with white;_
_There the roses flutter their petals,_
_Over the meadows they take their flight,_
_There the moth that sleepily settles_
_Turns to a flower in the warm soft light._
_There when the sunset colours the streets_
_Everyone buys at wonderful stalls_
_Toys and chocolates, guns and sweets,_
_Ivory pistols, and Persian shawls:_
_Everyone’s pockets are crammed with gold;_
_Nobody’s heart is worn with care,_
_Nobody ever grows tired and old,_
_And nobody calls you “Baby” there._
_There with a hat like a round white dish_
_Upside down on each pig-tailed head,_
_Jugglers offer you snakes and fish,_
_Dreams and dragons and gingerbread;_
_Beautiful books with marvellous pictures,_
_Painted pirates and streaming gore,_
_And everyone reads, without any strictures,_
_Tales he remembers for evermore._
_There when the dim blue daylight lingers_
_Listening, and the West grows holy,_
_Singers crouch with their long white fingers_
_Floating over the zithern slowly:_
_Paper lamps with a peachy bloom_
_Burn above on the dim blue bough,_
_While the zitherns gild the gloom_
_With curious music! I hear it now!_
_Now_: and at that mighty word
Holding out his magic fan,
Through the waving flowers appeared,
Suddenly, the tall thin man:
And we saw the crumpled dwarf
Trying to hide behind the tree,
But his knotted scarlet scarf
Made him very plain to see.
Like a soft and smoky cloud
Passed the webby net away;
While its owner squealing loud
Down behind the pear-tree lay;
For the tall thin man came near,
And his words were dark and gruff,
And he swung the dwarf in the air
By his long and scraggy scruff.
There he kickled whimpering.
But our rescuer touched the box,
Open with a sudden spring
Clashed the four-and-twenty locks;
Then he crammed the dwarf inside,
And the locks all clattered tight:
Four-and-twenty times he tried
Whether they were fastened right.
Ah, he led us on our road,
Showed us Wonder-Wander town;
Then he fled: behind him flowed
Once again the rose-pink gown:
Down the long deserted street,
All the windows winked like eyes,
And our little trotting feet
Echoed to the starry skies.
Low and long for evermore
Where the Wonder-Wander sea
Whispers to the wistful shore
Purple songs of mystery,
Down the shadowy quay we came--
Though it hides behind the hill
You will find it just the same
And the seamen singing still.
There we chose a ship of pearl,
And her milky silken sail
Seemed by magic to unfurl,
Puffed before a fairy gale;
Shimmering o’er the purple deep,
Out across the silvery bar,
Softly as the wings of sleep
Sailed we towards the morning star.
Over us the skies were dark,
Yet we never needed light;
Softly shone our tiny bark
Gliding through the solemn night;
Softly bright our moony gleam,
Glimmered o’er the glistening waves,
Like a cold sea-maiden’s dream
Globed in twilit ocean caves.
So all night our shallop passed
Many a haunt of old desire,
Blurs of savage blossom massed
Red above a pirate-fire;
Huts that gloomed and glanced among
Fruitage dipping in the blue;
Songs the sirens never sung,
Shores Ulysses never knew.
All our fairy rigging shone
Richly as a rainbow seen
Where the moonlight floats upon
Gossamers of gold and green:
All the tiny spars were bright;
Beaten gold the bowsprit was;
But our pilot was the night,
And our chart a looking-glass.
PART II
THE ARRIVAL
With rosy finger-tips the Dawn
Drew back the silver veils,
Till lilac shimmered into lawn
Above the satin sails;
And o’er the waters, white and wan,
In tiny patterned state,
We saw the streets of Old Japan
Shine, like a willow plate.
O, many a milk-white pigeon roams
The purple cherry crops,
The mottled miles of pearly domes,
And blue pagoda tops,
The river with its golden canes
And dark piratic dhows,
To where beyond the twisting vanes
The burning mountain glows.
A snow-peak in the silver skies
Beyond that magic world,
We saw the great volcano rise
With incense o’er it curled,
Whose tiny thread of rose and blue
Has risen since time began,
Before the first enchanter knew
The peak of Old Japan.
Nobody watched us quietly steer
The pinnace to the painted pier,
Except one pig-tailed mandarin,
Who sat upon a chest of tea
Pretending not to hear or see!...
His hands were very long and thin,
His face was very broad and white;
And O, it was a fearful sight
To see him sit alone and grin!
His grin was very sleek and sly:
Timidly we passed him by!
He did not seem at all to care:
So, thinking we were safely past,
We ventured to look back at last.
O, dreadful blank!--_He was not there!_
He must have hid behind his chest:
We did not stay to see the rest.
But, as in reckless haste we ran,
We came upon the tall thin man,
Who called to us and waved his fan,
And offered us his palanquin:
He said we must not go alone
To seek the ruby wishing-stone,
Because the white-faced mandarin
Would dog our steps for many a mile,
And sit upon each purple stile
Before we came to it, and smile
And smile; his name was Creeping Sin.
He played with children’s beating hearts,
And stuck them full of poisoned darts
And long green thorns that stabbed and stung:
He’d watch until we tried to speak,
Then thrust inside his pasty cheek
His long, white, slimy tongue:
And smile at everything we said;
And sometimes pat us on the head,
And say that we were very young:
He was a cousin of the man
Who said that there was no Japan.
And night and day this Creeping Sin
Would follow the path of the palanquin;
Yet if we still were fain to touch
The ruby, we must have no fear,
Whatever we might see or hear,
And the tall thin man would take us there;
He did not fear that Sly One much,
Except perhaps on a moonless night,
Nor even then if the stars were bright.
So, in the yellow palankeen
We swung along in state between
Twinkling domes of gold and green
Through the rich bazaar,
Where the cross-legged merchants sat,
Old and almond-eyed and fat,
Each upon a gorgeous mat,
Each in a cymar;
Each in crimson samite breeches,
Watching his barbaric riches.
Cherry blossom breathing sweet
Whispered o’er the dim blue street
Where with fierce uncertain feet
Tawny pirates walk:
All in belts and baggy blouses,
Out of dreadful opium houses,
Out of dens where Death carouses,
Horribly they stalk;
Girt with ataghan and dagger,
Right across the road they swagger.
And where the cherry orchards blow,
We saw the maids of Miyako,
Swaying softly to and fro
Through the dimness of the dance:
Like sweet thoughts that shine through dreams
They glided, wreathing rosy gleams,
With stately sounds of silken streams,
And many a slim kohl-lidded glance;
Then fluttered with tiny rose-bud feet
To a soft _frou-frou_ and a rhythmic beat
As the music shimmered, pursuit, retreat,
“Hands across, retire, advance!”
And again it changed and the glimmering throng
Faded into a distant song.
SONG
_The maidens of Miyako_
_Dance in the sunset hours,_
_Deep in the sunset glow,_
_Under the cherry flowers._
_With dreamy hands of pearl_
_Floating like butterflies,_
_Dimly the dancers whirl_
_As the rose light dies;_
_And their floating gowns, their hair_
_Upbound with curious pins,_
_Fade thro’ the darkening air_
_With the dancing mandarins._
And then, as we went, the tall thin man
Explained the manners of Old Japan;
If you pitied a thing, you pretended to sneer;
Yet if you were glad you ran to buy
A captive pigeon and let it fly;
And, if you were sad, you took a spear
To wound yourself, for fear your pain
Should quietly grow less again.
And, again he said, if we wished to find
The mystic City that enshrined
The stone so few on earth had found,
We must be very brave; it lay
A hundred haunted leagues away,
Past many a griffon-guarded ground,
In depths of dark and curious art,
Where passion-flowers enfold apart
The Temple of the Flaming Heart,
The City of the Secret Wound.
About the fragrant fall of day
We saw beside the twisted way
A blue-domed tea-house, bossed with gold;
Hungry and thirsty we entered in:
How should we know what Creeping Sin
Had breathed in that Emperor’s ear who sold
His own dumb soul for an evil jewel
To the earth-gods, blind and ugly and cruel?...
We drank sweet tea as his tale was told,
In a garden of blue chrysanthemums,
While a drowsy swarming of gongs and drums
Out of the sunset dreamily rolled.
But, as the murmur nearer drew,
A fat black bonze, in a robe of blue,
Suddenly at the gate appeared;
And close behind, with that evil grin,
_Was it Creeping Sin, was it Creeping Sin?_
The bonze looked quietly down and sneered.
Our guide! Was he sleeping? We could not wake him,
However we tried to pinch and shake him!
Nearer, nearer the tumult came,
Till, as a glare of sound and flame,
Blind from a terrible furnace door
Blares, or the mouth of a dragon, blazed
The seething gateway: deaf and dazed
With the clanging and the wild uproar
We stood; while a thousand oval eyes
Gapped our fear with a sick surmise.
Then, as the dead sea parted asunder,
The clamour clove with a sound of thunder
In two great billows; and all was quiet.
Gaunt and black was the palankeen
That came in dreadful state between
The frozen waves of the wild-eyed riot
Curling back from the breathless track
Of the Nameless One who is never seen:
The close drawn curtains were thick and black;
But wizen and white was the tall thin man
As he rose in his sleep:
His eyes were closed, his lips were wan,
He crouched like a leopard that dares not leap.
The bearers halted: the tall thin man,
Fearfully dreaming, waved his fan,
With wizard fingers, to and fro;
While, with a whimper of evil glee,
The Nameless Emperor’s mad Moonshee
Stepped in front of us: dark and slow
Were the words of the doom that he dared not name;
But, over the ground, as he spoke, there came
Tiny circles of soft blue flame;
Like ghosts of flowers they began to glow,
And flow like a moonlit brook between
Our feet and the terrible palankeen.
But the Moonshee wrinkled his long thin eyes,
And sneered, “Have you stolen the strength of the skies?
Then pour before us a stream of pearl!
Give us the pearl and the gold we know,
And our hearts will be softened and let you go;
But these are toys for a foolish girl--
These vanishing blossoms--what are they worth?
They are not so heavy as dust and earth:
Pour before us a stream of pearl!”
Then, with a wild strange laugh, our guide
Stretched his arms to the West and cried
Once, and a song came over the sea;
And all the blossoms of moon-soft fire
Woke and breathed as a wind-swept lyre,
And the garden surged into harmony;
Till it seemed that the soul of the whole world sung,
And every petal became a tongue
To tell the thoughts of Eternity.
But the Moonshee lifted his painted brows
And stared at the gold on the blue tea-house:
“Can you clothe your body with dreams?” he sneered;
“If you taught us the truths that we always know
Our heart might be softened and let you go:
Can you tell us the length of a monkey’s beard,
Or the weight of the gems on the Emperor’s fan,
Or the number of parrots in Old Japan?”
And again, with a wild strange laugh, our guide
Looked at him; and he shrunk aside,
Shrivelling like a flame-touched leaf;
For the red-cross blossoms of soft blue fire
Were growing and fluttering higher and higher,
Shaking their petals out, sheaf by sheaf,
Till with disks like shields and stems like towers
Burned the host of the passion-flowers
... Had the Moonshee flown like a midnight thief?
... Yet a thing like a monkey, shrivelled and black,
Chattered and danced as they forced him back.
As the coward chatters for empty pride,
In the face of a foe that he cannot but fear,
It chattered and leapt from side to side,
And its voice rang strangely upon the ear.
As the cry of a wizard that dares not own
Another’s brighter and mightier throne;
As the wrath of a fool that rails aloud
On the fire that burnt him; the brazen bray
Clamoured and sang o’er the gaping crowd,
And flapped like a gabbling goose away.
THE CRY OF THE MAD MOONSHEE
_If the blossoms were beans,
I should know what it means--
This blaze, which I certainly cannot endure;
It is evil, too,
For its colour is blue,
And the sense of the matter is quite obscure.
Celestial truth
Is the food of youth;
But the music was dark as a moonless night._
_The facts in the song
Were all of them wrong,
And there was not a single sum done right;
Tho’ a metaphysician amongst the crowd,
In a voice that was notably deep and loud,
Repeated, as fast as he was able,
The whole of the multiplication table._
So the cry flapped off as a wild goose flies,
And the stars came out in the trembling skies,
And ever the mystic glory grew
In the garden of blue chrysanthemums,
Till there came a rumble of distant drums;
And the multitude suddenly turned and flew.
... A dead ape lay where their feet had been ...
And we called for the yellow palankeen,
And the flowers divided and let us through.
The black-barred moon was large and low
When we came to the Forest of Ancient Woe;
And over our heads the stars were bright.
But through the forest the path we travelled
Its phosphorescent aisle unravelled
In one thin ribbon of dwindling light:
And twice and thrice on the fainting track
We paused to listen. The moon grew black,
But the coolies’ faces glimmered white,
As the wild woods echoed in dreadful chorus
A laugh that came horribly hopping o’er us
Like monstrous frogs thro’ the murky night.
Then the tall thin man as we swung along
Sang us an old enchanted song
That lightened our hearts of their fearful load.
But, e’en as the moonlit air grew sweet,
We heard the pad of stealthy feet
Dogging us down the thin white road;
And the song grew weary again and harsh,
And the black trees dripped like the fringe of a marsh,
And a laugh crept out like a shadowy toad;
And we knew it was neither ghoul nor djinn:
_It was Creeping Sin! It was Creeping Sin!_
But we came to a bend, and the white moon glowed
Like a gate at the end of the narrowing road
Far away; and on either hand,
As guards of a path to the heart’s desire,
The strange tall blossoms of soft blue fire
Stretched away thro’ that unknown land,
League on league with their dwindling lane
Down to the large low moon; and again
There shimmered around us that mystical strain,
In a tongue that it seemed we could understand.
SONG
_Hold by right and rule by fear_
_Till the slowly broadening sphere_
_Melting through the skies above_
_Merge into the sphere of love._
_Hold by might until you find_
_Might is powerless o’er the mind:_
_Hold by Truth until you see,_
_Though they bow before the wind,_
_Its towers can mock at liberty._
_Time, the seneschal, is blind;_
_Time is blind: and what are we?_
_Captives of Infinity,_
_Claiming through Truth’s prison bars_
_Kinship with the wandering stars._
O, who could tell the wild weird sights
We saw in all the days and nights
We travelled through those forests old.
We saw the griffons on white cliffs,
Among fantastic hieroglyphs,
Guarding enormous heaps of gold:
We saw the Ghastroi--curious men
Who dwell, like tigers, in a den,
And howl whene’er the moon is cold;
They stripe themselves with red and black
And ride upon the yellow Yak.
Their dens are always ankle-deep
With twisted knives, and in their sleep
They often cut themselves; they say
That if you wish to live in peace
The surest way is not to cease
Collecting knives; and never a day
Can pass, unless they buy a few;
And as their enemies buy them too
They all avert the impending fray,
And starve their children and their wives
To buy the necessary knives.
* * * * *
The forest leapt with shadowy shapes
As we came to the great black Tower of Apes:
But we gave them purple figs and grapes
In alabaster amphoras:
We gave them curious kinds of fruit
With betel nuts and orris-root,
And then they let us pass:
And when we reached the Tower of Snakes
We gave them soft white honey-cakes,
And warm sweet milk in bowls of brass:
And on the hundredth eve we found
The City of the Secret Wound.
We saw the mystic blossoms blow
Round the City, far below;
Faintly in the sunset glow
We saw the soft blue glory flow
O’er many a golden garden gate:
And o’er the tiny dark green seas
Of tamarisks and tulip-trees,
Domes like golden oranges
Dream aloft elate.
And clearer, clearer as we went,
We heard from tower and battlement
A whisper, like a warning, sent
From watchers out of sight;
And clearer, brighter, as we drew
Close to the walls, we saw the blue
Flashing of plumes where peacocks flew
Thro’ zones of pearly light.
On either side, a fat black bonze
Guarded the gates of red-wrought bronze,
Blazoned with blue sea-dragons
And mouths of yawning flame;
Down the road of dusty red,
Though their brown feet ached and bled,
Our coolies went with joyful tread:
Like living fans the gates outspread
And opened as we came.
PART III
THE MYSTIC RUBY
The white moon dawned; the sunset died;
And stars were trembling when we spied
The rose-red temple of our dreams:
Its lamp-lit gardens glimmered cool
With many an onyx-paven pool,
Amid soft sounds of flowing streams;
Where star-shine shimmered through the white
Tall fountain-shafts of crystal light
In ever changing rainbow-gleams.
Priests in flowing yellow robes
Glided under rosy globes;
Through the green pomegranate boughs
Moonbeams poured their coloured rain;
Roofs of sea-green porcelain
Jutted o’er the rose-red house;
Bells were hung beneath its eaves;
Every wind that stirred the leaves
Tinkled as tired water does.
The temple had a low broad base
Of black bright marble; all its face
Was marble bright in rosy bloom;
And where two sea-green pillars rose
Deep in the flower-soft eave-shadows
We saw, thro’ richly sparkling gloom,
Wrought in marvellous years of old
With bulls and peacocks bossed in gold,
The doors of powdered lacquer loom.
Quietly then the tall thin man,
Holding his turquoise-tinted fan,
Alighted from the palanquin;
We followed: never painter dreamed
Of how that dark rich temple gleamed
With gules of jewelled gloom within;
And as we wondered near the door
A priest came o’er the polished floor
In sandals of soft serpent-skin;
His mitre shimmered bright and blue
With pigeon’s breast-plumes. When he knew
Our quest he stroked his broad white chin,
And looked at us with slanting eyes
And smiled; then through his deep disguise
_We knew him! It was Creeping Sin!_
But cunningly he bowed his head
Down on his gilded breast and said
_Come_: and he led us through the dusk
Of passages whose painted walls
Gleamed with dark old festivals;
Till where the gloom grew sweet with musk
And incense, through a door of amber
We came into a high-arched chamber.
There on a throne of jasper sat
A monstrous idol, black and fat;
Thick rose-oil dropped upon its head:
Drop by drop, heavy and sweet,
Trickled down to its ebon feet
Whereon the blood of goats was shed,
And smeared around its perfumed knees
In savage midnight mysteries.
It wore about its bulging waist
A belt of dark green bronze enchased
With big, soft, cloudy pearls; its wrists
Were clasped about with moony gems
Gathered from dead kings’ diadems;
Its throat was ringed with amethysts,
And in its awful hand it held
A softly smouldering emerald.
Silkily murmured Creeping Sin,
“This is the stone you wished to win!”
“White Snake,” replied the tall thin man,
“Show us the Ruby Stone, or I
Will slay thee with my hands.” The sly
Long eyelids of the priest began
To slant aside; and then once more
He led us through the fragrant door.
And now along the passage walls
Were painted hideous animals,
With hooded eyes and cloven stings:
In the incense that like shadowy hair
Streamed over them they seemed to stir
Their craggy claws and crooked wings.
At last we saw strange moon-wreaths curl
Around a deep, soft porch of pearl.
O, what enchanter wove in dreams
That chapel wild with shadowy gleams
And prismy colours of the moon?
Shrined like a rainbow in a mist
Of flowers, the fretted amethyst
Arches rose to a mystic tune;
And never mortal art inlaid
Those cloudy floors of sea-soft jade.
There, in the midst, an idol rose
White as the silent starlit snows
On lonely Himalayan heights:
Over its head the spikenard spilled
Down to its feet, with myrrh distilled
In distant, odorous Indian nights:
It held before its ivory face
A flaming yellow chrysoprase.
O, silkily murmured Creeping Sin,
“This is the stone you wished to win.”
But in his ear the tall thin man
_Whispered with slow, strange lips_--we knew
Not what, but Creeping Sin went blue
With fear; again his eyes began
To slant aside; then through the porch
He passed, and lit a tall, brown torch.
Down a corridor dark as death,
With beating hearts and bated breath
We hurried; far away we heard
A dreadful hissing, fierce as fire
When rain begins to quench a pyre;
And where the smoky torch-light flared
Strange vermin beat their bat-like wings,
And the wet walls dropped with slimy things.
And darker, darker, wound the way,
Beyond all gleams of night and day,
And still that hideous hissing grew
Louder and louder on our ears,
And tortured us with eyeless fears;
Then suddenly the gloom turned blue,
And, in the wall, a rough rock cave
Gaped, like a phosphorescent grave.
And from the purple mist within
There came a wild tumultuous din
Of snakes that reared their heads and
hissed
As if a witch’s cauldron boiled;
All round the door great serpents coiled,
With eyes of glowing amethyst,
Whose fierce blue flames began to slide
Like shooting stars from side to side.
Ah! with a sickly gasping grin
And quivering eyelids, Creeping Sin
Stole to the cave; but, suddenly,
As through its glimmering mouth he passed,
The serpents flashed and gripped him fast:
He wriggled and gave one awful cry,
Then all at once the cave was cleared;
The snakes with their victim had disappeared.
And fearlessly the tall thin man
Opened his turquoise-tinted fan
And entered; and the mists grew bright,
And we saw that the cave was a diamond hall
Lit with lamps for a festival.
A myriad globes of coloured light
Went gliding deep in its massy sides,
Like the shimmering moons in the glassy tides
Where a sea-king’s palace enchants the night.
Gliding and flowing, a glory and wonder,
Through each other, and over, and under,
The lucent orbs of green and gold,
Bright with sorrow or soft with sleep,
In music through the glimmering deep,
Over their secret axles rolled,
And circled by the murmuring spheres
We saw in a frame of frozen tears
A mirror that made the blood run cold.
For, when we came to it, we found
It imaged everything around
Except the face that gazed in it;
And where the mirrored face should be
A heart-shaped Ruby fierily
Smouldered; and round the frame was writ,
_Mystery: Time and Tide shall pass,
I am the Wisdom Looking-Glass._
_This is the Ruby none can touch:
Many have loved it overmuch;
Its fathomless fires flutter and sigh,
Being as images of the flame
That shall make earth and heaven the same
When the fire of the end reddens the sky,
And the world consumes like a burning pall,
Till where there is nothing, there is all._
So we looked up at the tall thin man
And we saw that his face grew sad and wan:
Tears were glistening in his eyes:
At last, with a breaking sob, he bent
His head upon his breast and went
Swiftly away! With dreadful cries
We rushed to the softly glimmering door
And stared at the hideous corridor
But his robe was gone as a dream that flies:
Back to the glass in terror we came,
And stared at the writing round the frame.
We could not understand one word:
And suddenly we thought we heard
The hissing of the snakes again:
How could we front them all alone?
O, madly we clutched at the mirrored stone
And wished we were back on the flowery plain:
And swifter than thought and swift as fear
The whole world flashed, and behold we were there.
Yes; there was the port of Old Japan,
With its twisted patterns, white and wan,
Shining like a mottled fan
Spread by the blue sea, faint and far;
And far away we heard once more
A sound of singing on the shore,
Where boys in blue kimonos bore
Roses in a golden jar:
And we heard, where the cherry orchards blow,
The serpent-charmers fluting low,
And the song of the maidens of Miyako.
And at our feet unbroken lay
The glass that had whirled us thither away:
And in the grass, among the flowers
We sat and wished all sorts of things:
O, we were wealthier than kings!
We ruled the world for several hours!
And then, it seemed, we knew not why,
All the daisies began to die.
We wished them alive again; but soon
The trees all fled up towards the moon
Like peacocks through the sunlit air:
And the butterflies flapped into silver fish;
And each wish spoiled another wish;
Till we threw the glass down in despair;
For, getting whatever you want to get,
Is like drinking tea from a fishing net.
At last we thought we’d wish once more
That all should be as it was before;
And then we’d shatter the glass, if we could;
But just as the world grew right again,
We heard a wanderer out on the plain
Singing what none of us understood;
Yet we thought that the world grew thrice more sweet
And the meadows were blossoming under his feet.
And we felt a grand and beautiful fear,
For we knew that a marvellous thought drew near;
So we kept the glass for a little while:
And the skies grew deeper and twice as bright,
And the seas grew soft as a flower of light,
And the meadows rippled from stile to stile;
And memories danced in a musical throng
Thro’ the blossom that scented the wonderful song.
SONG
_We sailed across the silver seas
And saw the sea-blue bowers,
We saw the purple cherry trees,
And all the foreign flowers,
We travelled in a palanquin
Beyond the caravan,
And yet our hearts had never seen
The Flower of Old Japan._
_The Flower above all other flowers,
The Flower that never dies;_
_Before whose throne the scented hours
Offer their sacrifice;
The Flower that here on earth below
Reveals the heavenly plan;
But only little children know
The Flower of Old Japan._
There, in the dim blue flowery plain
We wished with the magic glass again
To go to the Flower of the song’s desire:
And o’er us the whole of the soft blue sky
Flashed like fire as the world went by,
And far beneath us the sea like fire
Flashed in one swift blue brilliant stream,
And the journey was done, like a change in a dream.
PART IV
THE END OF THE QUEST
Like the dawn upon a dream
Slowly through the scented gloom
Crept once more the ruddy gleam
O’er the friendly nursery room.
There, before our waking eyes,
Large and ghostly, white and dim,
Dreamed the Flower that never dies,
Opening wide its rosy rim.
Spreading like a ghostly fan,
Petals white as porcelain,
There the Flower of Old Japan
Told us we were home again;
For a soft and curious light
Suddenly was o’er it shed,
And we saw it was a white
English daisy, ringed with red.
Slowly, as a wavering mist
Waned the wonder out of sight,
To a sigh of amethyst,
To a wraith of scented light.
Flower and magic glass had gone;
Near the clutching fire we sat
Dreaming, dreaming, all alone,
Each upon a furry mat.
While the firelight, red and clear,
Fluttered in the black wet pane,
It was very good to hear
Howling winds and trotting rain.
For we found at last we knew
More than all our fancy planned,
All the fairy tales were true,
And home the heart of fairyland.
EPILOGUE
Carol, every violet has
Heaven for a looking-glass!
Every little valley lies
Under many-clouded skies;
Every little cottage stands
Girt about with boundless lands;
Every little glimmering pond
Claims the mighty shores beyond;
Shores no seaman ever hailed,
Seas no ship has ever sailed.
All the shores when day is done
Fade into the setting sun,
So the story tries to teach
More than can be told in speech.
Beauty is a fading flower,
Truth is but a wizard’s tower,
Where a solemn death-bell tolls,
And a forest round it rolls.
We have come by curious ways
To the Light that holds the days;
We have sought in haunts of fear
For that all-enfolding sphere:
And lo! it was not far, but near.
We have found, O foolish-fond,
The shore that has no shore beyond.
Deep in every heart it lies
With its untranscended skies;
For what heaven should bend above
Hearts that own the heaven of love?
Carol, Carol, we have come
Back to heaven, back to home.
FOREST OF WILD THYME
To
HELEN, ROSIE
and
BEATRIX
APOLOGIA
Critics, you have been so kind,
I would not have you think me blind
To all the wisdom that you preach;
Yet before I strictlier run
In straiter lines of chiselled speech,
Give me one more hour, just one
Hour to hunt the fairy gleam
That flutters through this childish dream.
It mocks me as it flies, I know:
All too soon the gleam will go;
Yet I love it and shall love
My dream that brooks no narrower bars
Than bind the darkening heavens above,
My Jack o’Lanthorn of the stars:
Then, I’ll follow it no more,
I’ll light the lamp: I’ll close the door.
PRELUDE
Hush! if you remember how we sailed to old Japan,
Peterkin was with us then, our little brother Peterkin!
Now we’ve lost him, so they say: I think the tall thin man
Must have come and touched him with his curious twinkling fan
And taken him away again, our merry little Peterkin;
He’ll be frightened all alone; we’ll find him if we can;
Come and look for Peterkin, poor little Peterkin.
No one would believe us if we told them what we know,
Or they wouldn’t grieve for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin;
If they’d only watched us roaming through the streets of Miyako,
And travelling in a palanquin where parents never go,
And seen the golden gardens where we wandered once with Peterkin,
And smelt the purple orchards where the cherry-blossoms blow,
They wouldn’t mourn for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin.
Put away your muskets, lay aside the drum,
Hang it by the wooden sword we made for little Peterkin!
He was once our trumpeter, now his bugle’s dumb,
Pile your arms beneath it, for the owlet light is come,
We’ll wander through the roses where we marched of old with Peterkin,
We’ll search the summer sunset where the Hybla beehives hum,
And--if we meet a fairy there--we’ll ask for news of Peterkin.
He was once our cabin-boy and cooked the sweets for tea;
And O, we’ve sailed around the world with laughing little Peterkin;
From nursery floor to pantry door we’ve roamed the mighty sea,
And come to port below the stairs in distant Caribee,
But wheresoe’er we sailed we took our little lubber Peterkin,
Because his wide grey eyes believed much more than ours could see,
And so we liked our Peterkin, our trusty little Peterkin.
Peterkin, Peterkin, I think if you came back
The captain of our host to-day should be the bugler Peterkin,
And he should lead our smugglers up that steep and narrow track,
A band of noble brigands, bearing each a mighty pack
Crammed with lace and jewels to the secret cave of Peterkin,
And he should wear the biggest boots and make his pistol crack,--
The Spanish cloak, the velvet mask, we’d give them all to Peterkin.
Come, my brother pirates, I am tired of play;
Come and look for Peterkin, little brother Peterkin,
Our merry little comrade that the fairies took away,
For people think we’ve lost him, and when we come to say
Our good-night prayers to mother, if we pray for little Peterkin
Her eyes are very sorrowful, she turns her head away.
Come and look for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin.
God bless little Peterkin, wherever he may be!
Come and look for Peterkin, lonely little Peterkin:
I wonder if they’ve taken him again across the sea
From the town of Wonder-Wander and the Amfalula tree
To the land of many marvels where we roamed of old with Peterkin,
The land of blue pagodas and the flowery fields of tea!
Come and look for Peterkin, poor little Peterkin.
PART I
THE SPLENDID SECRET
Now father stood engaged in talk
With mother on that narrow walk
Between the laurels (where we play
At Red-skins lurking for their prey)
And the grey old wall of roses
Where the Persian kitten dozes
And the sunlight sleeps upon
Crannies of the crumbling stone
--So hot it is you scarce can bear
Your naked hand upon it there,
Though there luxuriating in heat
With a slow and gorgeous beat
White-winged currant-moths display
Their spots of black and gold all day.--
Well, since we greatly wished to know
Whether we too might some day go
Where little Peterkin had gone
Without one word and all alone,
We crept up through the laurels there
Hoping that we might overhear
The splendid secret, darkly great,
Of Peterkin’s mysterious fate;
And on what high adventure bound
He left our pleasant garden-ground,
Whether for old Japan once more
He voyaged from the dim blue shore,
Or whether he set out to run
By candle-light to Babylon.
We just missed something father said
About a young prince that was dead,
A little warrior that had fought
And failed: how hopes were brought to nought
He said, and mortals made to bow
Before the Juggernaut of Death,
And all the world was darker now,
For Time’s grey lips and icy breath
Had blown out all the enchanted lights
That burned in Love’s Arabian nights;
And now he could not understand
Mother’s mystic fairy-land,
“Land of the dead, poor fairy-tale,”
He murmured, and her face grew pale,
And then with great soft shining eyes
She leant to him--she looked so wise--
And, with her cheek against his cheek,
We heard her, ah so softly, speak.
“Husband, there was a happy day,
Long ago, in love’s young May,
When with a wild-flower in your hand
You echoed that dead poet’s cry--
‘_Little flower, but if I could understand!_’
And you saw it had roots in the depths of the sky,
And there in that smallest bud lay furled
The secret and meaning of all the world.”
He shook his head and then he tried
To kiss her, but she only cried
And turned her face away and said,
“You come between me and my dead!
His soul is near me, night and day,
But you would drive it far away;
And you shall never kiss me now
Until you lift that brave old brow
Of faith I know so well; or else
Refute the tale the skylark tells,
Tarnish the glory of that May,
Explain the Smallest Flower away.”
And still he said, “Poor fairy-tales,
How terribly their starlight pales
Before the solemn sun of truth
That rises o’er the grave of youth!”
“Is heaven a fairy-tale?” she said,--
And once again he shook his head;
And yet we ne’er could understand
Why heaven should _not_ be fairy-land,
A part of heaven at least, and why
The thought of it made mother cry,
And why they went away so sad,
And father still quite unforgiven,
For what could children be but glad
To find a fairy-land in heaven?
And as we talked it o’er we found
Our brains were really spinning round;
But Dick, our eldest, late returned
From school, by all the lore he’d learned
Declared that we should seek the lost
Smallest Flower at any cost.
For, since within its leaves lay furled
The secret of the whole wide world,
He thought that we might learn therein
The whereabouts of Peterkin;
And, if we found the Flower, we knew
Father would be forgiven, too;
And mother’s kiss atone for all
The quarrel by the rose-hung wall;
We knew not how, we knew not why,
But Dick it was who bade us try,
Dick made it all seem plain and clear,
And Dick it is who helps us here
To tell this tale of fairy-land
In words we scarce can understand.
For ere another golden hour
Had passed, our anxious parents found
We’d left the scented garden-ground
To seek--the Smallest Flower.