Sun-bathed in Summer peace the village lay That afternoon. Along the happy street Milk-fragrant kine, and wagons high with hay Came lumbering. The fields were loud with bees And drowsy with the wind-stirred meadowsweet. From bowing trees Fell chatter, and above the garden wall Wide sunflowers beamed at spearing hollyhocks That dared the wind, and scorned the clustered stocks, And bore their laddered blooms high over all.
Here amid Summer murmur and delight The strolling singer came. The people heard Stray snatches of a song--a laugh--a word, And gossiping in groups of two or three Stood all amazed. For no one came in sight, Only the wind was laden drowsily With mellow sounds that slowly growing strong At last became a song:--
“Bend down, the marsh and meadow holds Pale yellow pimpernels, And sun-begotten marigolds, Thyme, orchis, asphodels, And borage born of ocean blue, Plumed armoured thistles, fever-few, Sea-campion globed, and clinging dew In giant flower-bells.
“Bend down--an ebon beetle prowls, And there a swinging bee Drinks honey from the laden cowls That clothe the foxglove tree. And giant peacock butterflies Light meadowsweet with sudden eyes, And through the tangled grasses rise Lucerne and timothy.”
Louder and louder grew the voice, until A figure specked the heaven-touching hill, And nearer, nearer, still ... The villagers in mingled fear and awe Stood round on tiptoe waiting. Soon they saw A little sylvan man with beckoning eyes And limbs of lithe expression. Woven flowers And grasses, splashed with rainbow-tinted showers, And jewelled with alluring butterflies, Enwrapped him. Russet face, clear-featured, gay As pebble-rumpled streams, and tousled hair Sun-dyed and naked. His limbs were bronzed and bare, And sprang, it seemed, from the wild interplay Of flower-woven garb. Around his waist Twined traveller’s-joy and honeysuckle, sweet And freshly dewed, and on his lissom feet Were pointed shoes of silver beech rush-laced.
The village gazed in silence, till a child Began:--“Who are you, funny man? Your face seems to be telling truth, your eyes Are just the colour of blue butterflies, O tell us who you are?” The stranger smiled, And turned his face that bore the wistful, far, Strange wonder-look of one whose dreams come true, Who delves in darkened quarries of his brain Unhoped-for gold, and changes old to new As Spring rejuvenates the earth again. Of one who plays Narcissus in Life’s pool And sees an image strangely beautiful ... Then suddenly they heard him cry:--