VIII

And over the rolling golden bay,

In the funeral pomp of the dying day,

The bell of Time was wistfully tolling

A million million years away;

And over the heather-drowsy hill

Where the burdened bees were buzzing still,

The two little sun-bright barefoot children

Wandered down at the flowers’ own will;

For still as the bell in the sunset tolled,

The meadow-sweet and the mary-gold

And the purple orchis kissed their ankles

And lured them over the listening wold.

And the feathery billows of blue-gold grass

Bowed and murmured and bade them pass,

Where a sigh of the sea-wind softly told them

There is no Time — Time never was.

And what if a sorrow were tolled to rest

Where the rich light mellowed away in the West,

As a glory of fruit in an autumn orchard

Heaped and asleep o'er the sea's ripe breast?

Why should they heed it, what should they know

Of the years that come or the years that go,

With the warm blue sky around and above them

And the wild thyme whispering to and fro?

For they heard in the dreamy dawn of day

A fairy harper faintly play,

Follow me, follow me, little children,

Over the hills and far away;

Where the dew is bright on the heather-bells,

And the breeze in the clover sways and swells,

As the waves on the blue sea wake and wander,

Over and under the braes and dells.

And the hare-bells tinkled and rang Ding dong

Bell in the dell as they danced along,

And their feet were stained on the hills with honey,

And crushing the clover till evensong.

And, oh the ripples that rolled in rhyme

Under the wild blue banks of thyme,

To the answering rhyme of the rolling ocean's

Golden glory of change and chime!

For they came to a stream and her fairy lover

Caught at her hand and swung her over,

And the broad wet buttercups laughed and gilded

Their golden knees in the deep sweet clover.

There was never a lavrock up in the skies

Blithe as the laugh of their lips and eyes,

As they glanced and glittered across the meadows

To waken the sleepy butterflies.

There was never a wave on the sea so gay

As the light that danced on their homeward way

Where the waving ferns were a fairy forest

And a thousand years as yesterday.

She was eight years old that day,

Full of laughter and play;

Eight years old and Anwyl nine,—

Two young lovers were they.

And when the clouds like folded sheep

Were drowsing over the drowsy deep,

And like a rose in a golden cradle

Anwyl breathed on the breast of sleep,

Or ever the petals and leaves were furled

At the vesper-song of the sunset-world,

The sleepy young rose of nine sweet summers

Dreamed in his rose-bed cosily curled.

And what if the light of his nine bright years

Glistened with laughter or glimmered with tears,

Or gleamed like a mystic globe around him

White as the light of the sphere of spheres?

And what if a glory of angels there,

Starring an orb of ineffable air,

Came floating down from the Gates of jasper

That melt into flowers at a maiden's prayer?

And what if he dreamed of a fairy face

Wondering out of some happy place,

Quietly as a star at sunset

Shines in the rosy dreams of space?

For only as far as the west wind blows

The sweets of a swinging full-blown rose,

Eight years old and queen of the lilies

Little Etain slept — ah, how close!

At a flower-cry over the moonlit lane

In a cottage of roses dreamed Etain,

And their purple shadows kissed at her lattice

And dappled her sigh-soft counterpane;

And or ever Etain with her golden head

Had nestled to sleep in her lily-white bed,

She breathed a dream to her fairy lover,

Please, God, bless Anwyl and me, she said.

And a song arose in the rose-white West,

And a whisper of wings o'er the sea's bright breast,

And a cry where the moon's old miracle wakened

A glory of pearl o'er the pine-forest.

Why should they heed it? What should they know

Of the years to come or the years to go?

With the starry skies around and above them

And the roses whispering to and fro.

Ah, was it a song of the mystic morn

When into their beating hearts the thorn

Should pierce through the red wet crumpled roses

And all the sorrow of love be born?

Ah, was it a cry of the wild wayside

Whereby one day they must surely ride,

Out of the purple garden of passion

To Calvary, to be crucified?

Only the sound of the distant sea

Broke on the shores of Mystery,

And tolled as a bell might toll for sorrow

Till Time be tombed in Eternity;

And in their dreams they only heard

Far away, one secret bird

Sing, till the passionate purple twilight

Throbbed with the wonder of one sweet word:

One sweet word and the wonder awoke,

And the leaves and the flowers and the starlight spoke

In silent rapture the strange old secret

That none e'er knew till the death-dawn broke;

One sweet whisper, and hand in hand

They wandered in dreams through fairyland,

Rapt in the star-bright mystical music

Which only a child can understand.

But never a child in the world can tell

The wonderful tale he knows so well,

Though ever as old Time dies in the sunset

It tolls and tolls like a distant bell.

Love, love, love; and they hardly knew

The sense of the glory that round them grew;

But the world was a wide enchanted garden;

And the song, the song, the song rang true.

And they danced with the fairies in emerald rings

Arched by the light of their rainbow wings,

And they heard the wild green Harper striking

A starlight over the golden strings.

Love, oh love; and they roamed once more

Through a forest of flowers on a fairy shore,

And the sky was a wild bright laugh of wonder

And the West was a dream of the years of yore.

In other worlds I loved you, long ago:

Love that hath no beginning hath no end:

The heather whispers low and sweet and low,

In other worlds I loved you, long ago;

The meadows murmur and the firwoods know

The message that the kindling East shall send;

In other worlds I loved you, long ago:

Love that hath no beginning hath no end.