PIXIES' PLOT By EDEN PHILLPOTTS Author of
As the Wind Blows; Evander
Pan & the Twins
&c. LONDON
GRANT RICHARDS LTD
St. Martin's Street, W.C.
1922 Printed in England at the Cloister Press, Heaton Mersey, near Manchester To
GRANT RICHARDS In beauty manifold are wrought Your gardens, full of charm and grace, That hold the best in every sort But entrance yield to nothing base. And 'mid their lawns, austere and bright, Though statues gleam and fountains play, There's one wild dingle where half light Of faery never dies away. There hang your wreath within a glade Ere berries shrink and blossoms pine; For pixy blooms too quickly fade Plucked by this clumsy hand of mine. Yet, howsoever swift their end, They hold a more enduring seed And bring you, from a kindly friend, Good will, to dignify the deed. E. P. CONTENTS Pixies' Plot The Charm Joe's Donkey Diana The Mouse and the Epitaph Echo and Narcissus The Sandhills The Ghost A Test Dreams The Fire-drake The Seven Maidens The Heron The Grief On the Ebb Scandal To a Bat Moon-Moth The Hunting The Good Girl The Lover The Motor Car The Sea Scouts Song for the Spheres The Circle To Anthea's Bosom Dust Young Night Jill Bassett Tailpiece THE PIXIES' PLOT (A pleasant maxim of old time directed the gardener to leave one corner as nature planned it, for the little people. Thus welcomed, they might be trusted to show their human hosts goodwill, friendship, and service.) You have it, or you have it not: The cantle of the Pixies' plot, Where never spade nor hoe shall ply To break that treasured sanctity. Touch no bloom there; uproot no weed; Let what will blow. Suffer the thistle, briar and thorn to grow, The dandelion to seed. Though full the garden of your mind, Well planted on a soil that's kind; Your hedges gay, your borders clean, Your seasons fair, your clime serene, Yet trammel not the Pixies' mite, For well-coming Chance little, wandering, weary, fairy thing Lost in the dim owl-light. Still virgin, free and set apart, Ordain one dingle of your heart, Where visions home and wing to you The golden dreams that might come true. Herein a gentler dawn than day Shall often break For foot-sore spirits, tired of reason's ache, And children come to play. THE CHARM When chafers drone their litany And pray, "Oh, Father, grant that we From airy-mouse delivered be," Go seek the charm. Under the sky, when a star shoots, Beneath an oak, when the owl hoots, Gather ye simples, dig ye roots For the rare charm. That glassy ghost upon a thorn-- The raiment of a snake outworn-- Must backward through the dark be borne To feed the charm. A glow-worm--she whose gentle light Glimmers green-gold through a blue night Beside the churchyard aconite-- Shall help the charm. One willow from the cradle take Where a boy baby lies awake, And splinters off a coffin break To build the charm. A tarnished silver chalice bring, Dead gossips gave at christening, And dip the moonlight from a spring To crown the charm. This much, God wot, a child might do, Yet all must fail if haply you Lack a child's faith, so trusting, true, To bless the charm. Many the spells of high degree And fruitful happiness I see All lost, for faith to set them free And work the charm. JOE'S DONKEY The harp of night had silver strings, The moon was low, the stars burned dim, When from a wood, with roaring wings, Joe flushed a brace of cherubim. His eye did bulge at sign so brave To see the shining angels pass; Then, happening beside her grave, He met his dead and buried ass! She'd broke a leg and so was slain And buried here a week ago; Now, all alive and sound again, She brayed with joy to welcome Joe! A holy cross that donkeys bear, Since Jesus Christ did deign to ride, The cherubs tempted to repair That ancient beast in bone and hide. The harp of morn had golden strings Ere home they came--Joe's ass and he; And when their neighbours heard these things They praised the Lord right heartily. DIANA Look not upon a moon that's new, For with her bitter sickle keen She comes between, she comes between, And cuts the tender from the true. Look not upon a white full moon: Her stiff-starched pudency doth shame The throbbing pulse, the leaping flame, And freezes passion at its noon. Look not upon a moon that's old With fallen breast and shadowy eyes, Till the last hope of loving dies, And heart's outworn and blood run cold. THE MOUSE AND THE EPITAPH In moonlight grey the hungry church-yard mouse Sat on old William Blee--his narrow house. Climbing the mound, an ancient slate he read, Then spoke, with rustic frankness, to the dead. "'A husband and a father dear': What then? So much is true of mice as well as men. 'Friend to the poor'? That's humbug, Billy Blee! When did you ever spare a crumb for me?" ECHO AND NARCISSUS Through the green dell she went, Bright haired, with cheeks that burned; Her passion hardly pent; Her eyes upon him turned. Her crocus-coloured gown Over her white, young breast beat up and down. Adream, he did not guess, But dwelt upon his thought Of perfect loveliness, Nor heeded when she caught A sigh his bosom breathed, And murmured it again with music wreathed. Oh, wasted wealth of love; While Echo's heart will break, Narcissus from above, Within a glassy lake, Beholds perfection lie And, for the vision of himself, must die. Now, hid in bare-ribbed rock With crocus-coloured veins, She guards from windy shock, She shields from wild March rains, Where grass and granite meet, The daffodil that's budding at her feet. THE SANDHILLS Oh, naked-footed boy, with the wild hair And laughing eyes, is it so long ago Among these windy dunes you made your lair, Beside the immutable sea's unwearied ebb and flow? Above you sings the horrent bent; the sun Finds you and burns your budding limbs to brown; You race the waves and wade and leap and run, Then in the sweet, hot sand, contented, cuddle down You dream great dreams, while all the upper air Is musical with mews; and round about, Upon the flats among the sea-ways there, The dim sea-lavender spreads her purple fingers out. And still the sandhills roll and still the sea Flings a straight line of everlasting blue Athwart their shining hillocks; solemnly The ships go by, but not the wondrous ships you knew. When first your path among the sand dunes fell-- The dunes that stretched as now and shone of yore In their bright nakedness--a magic spell Of mystery they wove along the shining shore. This poppy with the horn, this bindweed white And salicornia in its crimson bands Meant more, far more than beauty and delight: They stood for treasure torn from drowning pirates' hands. These amber weeds were then a garment brave; These agate stones were gems of splendid size Once decked a mermaid in a deep sea cave, Lit by gigantic fish from their green, glimmering eyes. The sandhills were your giants, cruel or kind; Each falling billow told another tale; Fairies and goblins flew upon the wind; There lurked a tragedy in every sea-bird's wail. And now the watchful sea doth bid me say; The salt air whispers me to speak and tell Where is that little boy from yesterday Whom wind and wave and sand and sunshine knew so well? "He was our playmate; us he understood And ran to us with glory in his eyes; We loved him and we wrought to work his good; We made him strong and brave and with our wisdom wise. "Will he not come again? The flowerets small Have opened for his eager hands once more; Among the yellow whins the linnets call, The wrack and shells he sought still drift along the shore. "He climbed the crests of all our ridges grey And sang to us and paddled where our foam Thins to a crystal film. But yesterday A happy sprite was he; where now does our boy roam? "Deep of the many voices, on whose face No seal is set through all the centuries fled, Laugh on at time, nor know the hurricane race Of his few, hurtling years above a human head. "And thou, old dune; the stars of heaven shall rove, The galaxies break up to wheel about And in new, glittering constellations move Before thine hour-glass grey hath run its measure out. "Your yesterday, you immemorial things, Whereon the ages yet no shadow cast, For me the hurrying and sleepless wings Of year on stormy year have swept into the past. "Yet think not I have lost that faith and joy Felt when my world was young and I a part. Oh, sea and sand and wild, west wind, your boy Lies hidden safe within my steadfast, changeless heart." THE GHOST Night-foundered to the ruin he came Nor recked of its uncanny fame; A haunt of slumber opened here, And weariness, that casts out fear, His footsteps led. The moon swam low; the woods were still; Dog foxes barked upon the hill; With zig-zag wing a flitter-mouse Flew in and out the haunted house And overhead. Within, decaying wood and lime Lifted their incense up to time; The foot fell hollow; echoes woke, And whispering, half-heard voices spoke Behind the dark. Aloft, the drowsy wanderer found A chamber far above the ground; Whose casement, rusty-ironed and high, Gaped ivy-clad upon the sky, Starlit and stark. White-fingered now the moonbeams ran To ripple on the resting man. He saw their stealthy silver creep As it would drown him in his sleep With splendour mild. And then a subtle shadow moved, A spirit that the dead had loved: For wanly limned against the gloom Of that forbid, forgotten room There ran a child. She twinkled in her candid shift, Light as a moth, so silent, swift, And peeped and peered for what might be Hid in that ancient nursery-- A babe of joy. But something called the busy wight: She faded sudden from his sight; And, as her little glimmer paled Like a glass bell, the ghostling wailed, "Where is my toy?" A TEST "I'll bring bright rainbow gold-- The rainbow too, a gown for you In glorious fold on fold. "A necklace of white stars About your throat shall hang and gloat; And, for an ear-ring, Mars. "Unto the ends of earth, Oh, dearest Heart, will I depart To glean their utmost worth. "Until, with great amaze At all I do, my Soul, for you, The good round world shall gaze!" She "But these are gifts of dust, Unfit to prove a hero's love Or win a maiden's trust. "To love's supreme degree If you would come, then bide at home And never tire of me." DREAMS When I have won to rest once more In sanctity of night and sleep, Drift visions from the shadow shore-- Small, patient forms that creep. They move in drab; they wear no wings; They are the dreams that might come true-- Meek phantoms of the modest things That I have power to do. Like azure shadows in the snow, Or bloom upon the sun-kissed grape, Sweep lovelier shapes, that gleam and glow And don a rarer shape. They smile with eyes of queens and kings; They call on me to make them true-- The lordly, gracious, sovereign things I have no power to do. Remain such waking dreams as limn Upon reality and truth, Flying like holy seraphim Whose rainbow wings drop ruth. Born of the human sorrowings That pierce our common nature through, They challenge to the mightiest things All men have power to do. THE FIRE-DRAKE An' it should be you'd make, All for your sweetheart's joy, A jewelly fire-drake, This goes unto the toy: A dragon-fly that's blue, With little glow-worms two, And morning drops of dew Upon a spider's thread. All these are simple things And easy to be got, But now the fire-drake's wings Will puzzle you, God wot. The flash that in them lies Shall come not from the skies, But lights the diamond eyes In your dear sweetheart's head. Lacking that pearly gleam, So magical to see, Your gift is but a dream: The fire-drake cannot be. But if the maiden pout And anger peepeth out, Ere she your heart would flout Fly to the priest and wed. Better to love she turn At her fond lover's side Than for the fire-drake burn And ever be denied. Go husband and go wife, Without one thought of strife, In blessing of shared life The marriage way to tread. THE SEVEN MAIDENS In far away and olden times Sped from their hamlet seven maids To dim and moonlit heather glades, Upon the hour of midnight chimes. One passion drew them secretly; One master joy their little feet Called to that desolate retreat, Where never mortal man might see. 'Twas blue-eyed Dian who led the dance, With Linnette, Bethkin, Jennifer, Avisa, Petronell and Nance. Unknown they kept their nightly cheer; Unguessed beneath the moon they kept Brave frolic, while the village slept, Nor dreamed the danger drawing near; For on a holy Sabbath even, When pirouette had been a shame, Walking sedate, strange music came To tempt the toes of all the seven-- Of blue-eyed Dian, who led the dance, Of Linnette, Bethkin, Jennifer, Avisa, Petronell and Nance. The demon Piper tuned his reed To madden each light-footed maid. They listened, wondering, unafraid, Nor thought upon the sorry speed Awaiting any wanton one Who'd sport upon the Lord's own Day; Then, tripping through that dimpsy grey, Quick fingers joined--the deed was done! For blue-eyed Dian had dared to dance With Linnette, Bethkin, Jennifer, Avisa, Petronell and Nance. Their eyes like emeralds through the gloom, Leapt elves and fairies, gnomes and imps, In fearful haste to win a glimpse Of the unhappy maidens' doom; For sudden rang a thunder-shock And flashed blue lightning-fork, to show Beneath its grim and baleful glow, Each flying girl turned to a rock! Alas for Dian, who led the dance, For Linnette, Bethkin, Jennifer, Avisa, Petronell and Nance. And now, at every Hunter's moon, That haggard cirque of stones so still Awakens to immortal thrill, And seven small maids in silver shoon, 'Twixt dark of night and white of day, Twinkle upon the sere, old heath, Like living blossoms in a wreath, Then shrink again to granite grey. So blue-eyed Dian shall ever dance With Linnette, Bethkin, Jennifer, Avisa, Petronell and Nance. THE HERON Where leaps the burn by granite stairs Into an eddying pool, he stood, Personifying solitude And meditating his affairs. A bird august beyond belief Distinguished in his way of thought, Yet the sworn enemy of sport-- A "poacher," "vagabond," and "thief." Creation's lord, the heron knew, Denied his right to fish for trout-- A fact that often made him doubt Of justice on a general view. Then me he saw, and, guessing not I held him innocent to be, He spread slow pinions heavily And drifted to a lonelier spot; But left a feather by the stream, Deep in the plume, fair, silver grey, With which I'll write upon the day: "Live and let live" shall be my theme. THE GRIEF A grief came unto me at noon of night Blown on a breath of silky, southern air With scent of myrtles and a crown of light For aureole: vanished loveliness was there And old, lost, magical things, all gracious and all rare. Wings of cloud-purple from the Inland Sea, Foam-tipped, my Grief outspread; the southern sun Burned for a diadem, and mystery, From the dim smoke of olive orchards won, Arrayed that delicate shape in silver they had spun. How little, little 'twixt our joy and woe! Not sorrow then, but glad epiphanies Of treasured happiness from long ago, Had been my dreaming; but in bitter wise The Grief looked on my face with a dead woman's eyes. ON THE EBB The tide fell fast and foaming, the empty sand shone bright, And by the ocean roaming, upon the edge of night, I found a something stranded with sea-fowl mewing high-- A wondrous atom landed and left all high and dry. Whoever yet suspected mer-babies on a beach? Yet here, by tide neglected, lay one within my reach-- A dainty, winsome creature as pink as any rose, His golden tail a feature to take the place of toes. And through the billows splashing, the sunset in her hair, Over the white foam flashing, there rode a lady fair. His blue-eyed, wild mer-mother swam wailing on the sea. She sparkled through the smother and clamoured mournfully. In gentle hands and steady, I lifted her delight, Made sure that she was ready, then flung with all my might. She sprang, like salmon leaping; she laughed in radiant And gathered to safe keeping her rosy, golden boy. I'd earned a mother's blessing--a good thing any day; But now one fell to guessing what Science had to say: For such authentic wonders, upon an ebbing tide, Show zoologic blunders that cannot be denied. SCANDAL An owl alighted in the yew Beside a poet's little house; The hour was nearly half-past two, And, as he ate his juicy mouse, A cuckoo clock made cheerful chime Within and shouted out the time. "O gracious God!" the owl began, And rolled his round eyes at the moon, "What a black piece of work is man-- Well might we miss cuckoo in June. How mad, misguided, inhumane To keep cuckoo upon a chain! "But all the feathered folk must know; This infamy I'll bring to light, And hoot the horror high and low And scream the crime by day and night. No bird shall sing to him again Who keeps a cuckoo on a chain." |
|
