Chapter II

On the topmost branch of the Tree of Life
There hung a ripe red apple,
The angels singing underneath
All praised its crimson dapple.

They plucked it once to play at ball,
But ’mid the shouts and laughter
The apple fell o’er Heaven’s edge,
Sad angels looking after.

E’en while at ease to see it rest
Beside a peaceful chapel,
An old priest flung it farther still,
“Bah, what a battered apple!”

_To a Dragon Fly._

You hail from Dream-land, Dragon-fly?
A stranger hither? so am I,
And (sooth to say) I wonder why
We either of us came!
Are you (that shine so bright i’ the air)
King Oberon’s state-messenger?
Come tell me how my old friends fare,
Is Dream-land still the same?

Who won the latest tourney fight,
King Arthur, or the Red-Cross Knight,
Or he who bore away the bright
Renown’d Mambrino’s Casque?
Is Caliban King’s councillor yet?
Cross Mentor jester still and pet?
Is Suckling out of love and debt?
Has Spenser done his task?

Say, have they settled over there,
Which is the loveliest Guinevere,
Or Gloriana or the fair
Young Queen of Oberon’s Court?
And does Titania torment still
Mike Drayton and sweet-throated Will?
In sooth of her amours ’twas ill
To make such merry sport.

Ah, I have been too long away!
No doubt I shall return some day,
But now I’m lost in love and may
Not leave my Lady’s sight.
Mine is (of course) the happier lot,
Yet—tell them I forget them not,
My pretty gay compatriot,
When you go home to-night.

_Celia’s Home-Coming._

Maidens, kilt your skirts and go
Down the stormy garden-ways,
Pluck the last sweet pinks that blow,
Gather roses, gather bays,
Since our Celia comes to-day
That has been too long away.

Crowd her chamber with your sweets—
Not a flower but grows for her!
Make her bed with linen sheets
That have lain in lavender;
Light a fire before she come
Lest she find us chill at home.

Ah, what joy when Celia stands
By the leaping blaze at last,
Stooping down to warm her hands
All benumbèd with the blast,
While we hide her cloak away
To assure us she shall stay.

Cyder bring and cowslip wine,
Fruits and flavours from the East,
Pears and pippins too, and fine
Saffron loaves to make a feast:
China dishes, silver cups,
For the board where Celia sups!

Then, when all the feasting’s done,
She shall draw us round the blaze,
Laugh, and tell us every one
Of her far triumphant days—
Celia, out of doors a star,
By the hearth a holier Lar!

_Posies._

TO F. M. R.

I.

I made a posy for my Love
As fair as she is soft and fine:
The lilac thrift I made it of,
And lemon-yellow columbine.

But woe is me for my despair,
For my pale flowers, woe is me
A bolder man has given her
A branch of crimson peony!