So, when my nurse comes in for me, Home I return across the sea, And go to bed with backward looks At my dear land of Story-books.

VIII

ARMIES IN THE FIRE

THE lamps now glitter down the street; Faintly sound the falling feet; And the blue even slowly falls About the garden trees and walls.

Now in the falling of the gloom The red fire paints the empty room: And warmly on the roof it looks, And flickers on the backs of books.

Armies march by tower and spire Of cities blazing, in the fire;-- Till as I gaze with staring eyes, The armies fade, the l.u.s.tre dies.

Then once again the glow returns; Again the phantom city burns; And down the red-hot valley, lo!

The phantom armies marching go!

Blinking embers, tell me true Where are those armies marching to, And what the burning city is That crumbles in your furnaces!

IX

THE LITTLE LAND

WHEN at home alone I sit And am very tired of it, I have just to shut my eyes To go sailing through the skies-- To go sailing far away To the pleasant Land of Play; To the fairy land afar Where the Little People are; Where the clover-tops are trees, And the rain-pools are the seas, And the leaves like little ships Sail about on tiny trips; And above the daisy tree Through the gra.s.ses, High o'erhead the b.u.mble Bee Hums and pa.s.ses.

In that forest to and fro I can wander, I can go; See the spider and the fly, And the ants go marching by Carrying parcels with their feet Down the green and gra.s.sy street.

I can in the sorrel sit Where the ladybird alit.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE LITTLE LAND

In that forest to and fro I can wander, I can go]

I can climb the jointed gra.s.s; And on high See the greater swallows pa.s.s In the sky, And the round sun rolling by Heeding no such things as I.

Through that forest I can pa.s.s Till, as in a looking-gla.s.s, Humming fly and daisy tree And my tiny self I see, Painted very clear and neat On the rain-pool at my feet.

Should a leaflet come to land Drifting near to where I stand, Straight I'll board that tiny boat Round the rain-pool sea to float.

Little thoughtful creatures sit On the gra.s.sy coasts of it; Little things with lovely eyes See me sailing with surprise.

Some are clad in armour green-- (These have sure to battle been!)--

Some are pied with ev'ry hue, Black and crimson, gold and blue; Some have wings and swift are gone;-- But they all look kindly on.

When my eyes I once again Open, and see all things plain: High bare walls, great bare floor; Great big k.n.o.bs on drawer and door; Great big people perched on chairs, St.i.tching tucks and mending tears, Each a hill that I could climb, And talking nonsense all the time--

O dear me, That I could be A sailor on the rain-pool sea, A climber in the clover tree, And just come back, a sleepy-head, Late at night to go to bed.

GARDEN DAYS

I

NIGHT AND DAY

WHEN the golden day is done, Through the closing portal, Child and garden, flower and sun, Vanish all things mortal.

As the blinding shadows fall, As the rays diminish, Under evening's cloak, they all Roll away and vanish.

Garden darkened, daisy shut, Child in bed, they slumber-- Glow-worm in the highway rut, Mice among the lumber.

In the darkness houses shine, Parents move with candles; Till on all, the night divine Turns the bedroom handles.

Till at last the day begins In the east a-breaking, In the hedges and the whins Sleeping birds a-waking.

In the darkness shapes of things, Houses, trees, and hedges, Clearer grow; and sparrow's wings Beat on window ledges.

These shall wake the yawning maid; She the door shall open-- Finding dew on garden glade And the morning broken.

There my garden grows again Green and rosy painted, As at eve behind the pane From my eyes it fainted.

Just as it was shut away, Toy-like, in the even, Here I see it glow with day Under glowing heaven.

Every path and every plot, Every bush of roses, Every blue forget-me-not Where the dew reposes,

"Up!" they cry, "the day is come On the smiling valleys; We have beat the morning drum; Playmate, join your allies!"

II

NEST EGGS

BIRDS all the sunny day Flutter and quarrel Here in the arbour-like Tent of the laurel.

Here in the fork The brown nest is seated; Four little blue eggs The mother keeps heated.