PEASE-BLOSSOM AND MUSTARD-SEED

Shyly we surveyed our guides

As through the gloomy woods we went

In the light that the straggling moonbeams lent:

We envied them their easy strides!

Pease-blossom in his crimson cap

And delicate suit of rose-leaf green,

His crimson sash and his jewelled dagger,

Strutted along with an elegant swagger

Which showed that he did n't care one rap

For anything less than a Fairy Queen:

His eyes were deep like the eyes of a poet,

Although his crisp and curly hair

Certainly did n't seem to show it!

While Mustard-seed was a devil-may-care

Epigrammatic and pungent fellow

Clad in a splendid suit of yellow,

With emerald stars on his glittering breast

And eyes that shone with a diamond light:

They made you feel sure it would always be best

To tell him the truth: he was not perhaps quite

So polite as Pease-blossom, but then who could be

Quite such a debonair fairy as he?

We never could tell you one-half that we heard

And saw on that journey. For instance, a bird

Ten times as big as an elephant stood

By the side of a nest like a great thick wood:

The clouds in glimmering wreaths were spread

Behind its vast and shadowy head

Which rolled at us trembling below. ( Its eyes

Were like great black moons in those pearl-pale skies. )

And we feared he might take us, perhaps, for a worm.

But he ruffled his breast with the sound of a storm,

And snuggled his head with a careless disdain

Under his huge hunched wing again;

And Mustard-seed said, as we stole thro’ the dark,

There was nothing to fear: it was only a Lark!

And so he cheered the way along

With many a neat little epigram,

While dear Pease-blossom before him swam

On a billow of lovely moonlit song,

Telling us why they had left their home

In Sherwood, and had hither come

To dwell in this magical scented clime,

This dim old Forest of sweet Wild Thyme,

“Men toil,” he said, “from morn till night

With bleeding hands and blinded sight

For gold, more gold! They have betrayed

The trust that in their souls was laid;

Their fairy birthright they have sold

For little disks of mortal gold;

And now they cannot even see

The gold upon the greenwood tree,

The wealth of coloured lights that pass

In soft gradations through the grass,

The riches of the love untold

That wakes the day from grey to gold;

And howsoe'er the moonlight weaves

Magic webs among the leaves

Englishmen care little now

For elves beneath the hawthorn bough:

Nor if Robin should return

Dare they of an outlaw learn;

For them the Smallest Flower is furled,

Mute is the music of the world;

And unbelief has driven away

Beauty from the blossomed spray.”

Then Mustard-seed with diamond eyes

Taught us to be laughter-wise,

And he showed us how that Time

Is much less powerful than a rhyme;

And that Space is but a dream;

“For look,” he said, with eyes agleam,

“Now you are become so small

You think the Thyme a forest tall;

But underneath your feet you see

A world of wilder mystery

Where, if you were smaller yet,

You would just as soon forget

This forest, which you'd leave above

As you have left the home you love!

For, since the Thyme you used to know

Seems a forest here below,

What if you should sink again

And find there stretched a mighty plain

Between each grass-blade and the next?

You'd think till you were quite perplexed!

Especially if all the flowers

That lit the sweet Thyme-forest bowers

Were in that wild transcendent change

Turned to Temples, great and strange,

With many a pillared portal high

And domes that swelled against the sky!

How foolish, then, you will agree,

Are those who think that all must see

The world alike, or those who scorn

Another who, perchance, was born

Where — in a different dream from theirs —

What they call sins to him are prayers!

“We cannot judge; we cannot know;

All things mingle; all things flow;

There's only one thing constant here —

Love — that untranscended sphere:

Love, that while all ages run

Holds the wheeling worlds in one;

Love that, as your sages tell,

Soars to heaven and sinks to hell.”

Even as he spoke, we seemed to grow

Smaller, the Thyme trees seemed to go

Farther away from us: new dreams

Flashed out on us with mystic gleams

Of mighty Temple-domes: deep awe

Held us all breathless as we saw

A carven portal glimmering out

Between new flowers that put to rout

Our other fancies: in sweet fear

We tiptoed past, and seemed to hear

A sound of singing from within

That told our souls of Peterkin:

Our thoughts of him were still the same

Howe'er the shadows went and came,

So, on we wandered, hand in hand,

And all the world was fairy-land.

And as we went we seemed to hear

Surging up from distant dells

A solemn music, soft and clear

As if a field of lily-bells

Were tolling all together, sweet

But sad and low and keeping time

To multitudinous marching feet

With a slow funereal beat

And a deep harmonious chime

That told us by its dark refrain

The reason fairies suffered pain.