THE PIXIES' PLOT

(A pleasant maxim of old time directed the gardener to leave one corner as nature planned it, for the little people. Thus welcomed, they might be trusted to show their human hosts goodwill, friendship, and service.)

You have it, or you have it not:

The cantle of the Pixies' plot,

Where never spade nor hoe shall ply

To break that treasured sanctity.

Touch no bloom there; uproot no weed;

Let what will blow.

Suffer the thistle, briar and thorn to grow,

The dandelion to seed.

Though full the garden of your mind,

Well planted on a soil that's kind;

Your hedges gay, your borders clean,

Your seasons fair, your clime serene,

Yet trammel not the Pixies' mite,

For well-coming

Chance little, wandering, weary, fairy thing

Lost in the dim owl-light.

Still virgin, free and set apart,

Ordain one dingle of your heart,

Where visions home and wing to you

The golden dreams that might come true.

Herein a gentler dawn than day

Shall often break

For foot-sore spirits, tired of reason's ache,

And children come to play.

THE CHARM

When chafers drone their litany

And pray, "Oh, Father, grant that we

From airy-mouse delivered be,"

Go seek the charm.

Under the sky, when a star shoots,

Beneath an oak, when the owl hoots,

Gather ye simples, dig ye roots

For the rare charm.

That glassy ghost upon a thorn--

The raiment of a snake outworn--

Must backward through the dark be borne

To feed the charm.

A glow-worm--she whose gentle light

Glimmers green-gold through a blue night

Beside the churchyard aconite--

Shall help the charm.

One willow from the cradle take

Where a boy baby lies awake,

And splinters off a coffin break

To build the charm.

A tarnished silver chalice bring,

Dead gossips gave at christening,

And dip the moonlight from a spring

To crown the charm.

This much, God wot, a child might do,

Yet all must fail if haply you

Lack a child's faith, so trusting, true,

To bless the charm.

Many the spells of high degree

And fruitful happiness I see

All lost, for faith to set them free

And work the charm.

JOE'S DONKEY

The harp of night had silver strings,

The moon was low, the stars burned dim,

When from a wood, with roaring wings,

Joe flushed a brace of cherubim.

His eye did bulge at sign so brave

To see the shining angels pass;

Then, happening beside her grave,

He met his dead and buried ass!

She'd broke a leg and so was slain

And buried here a week ago;

Now, all alive and sound again,

She brayed with joy to welcome Joe!

A holy cross that donkeys bear,

Since Jesus Christ did deign to ride,

The cherubs tempted to repair

That ancient beast in bone and hide.

The harp of morn had golden strings

Ere home they came--Joe's ass and he;

And when their neighbours heard these things

They praised the Lord right heartily.

DIANA

Look not upon a moon that's new,

For with her bitter sickle keen

She comes between, she comes between,

And cuts the tender from the true.

Look not upon a white full moon:

Her stiff-starched pudency doth shame

The throbbing pulse, the leaping flame,

And freezes passion at its noon.

Look not upon a moon that's old

With fallen breast and shadowy