728 At last hear something really; joyfully Her cheek grew crimson, as the headlong speed The knight who came was Launcelot at good need. PROLOGUE OF THE EARTHLY PARADISE Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing, But rather, when aweary of your mirth, The idle singer of an empty day. The heavy trouble, the bewildering care That weighs us down who live and earn our bread, Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time, 729 Folk say, a wizard to a northern king So with this Earthly Paradise it is, THE NYMPH'S SONG TO HYLAS I Know a little garden-close And though within it no birds sing, There comes a murmur from the shore, For which I cry both day and night, Yet tottering as I am, and weak, To seek within the jaws of death An entrance to that happy place; To seek the unforgotten face Once seen, once kiss'd, once reft from me 730 THE DAY IS COMING Come hither, lads, and harken, for a tale there is to tell, than well. And the tale shall be told of a country, a land in the midst of the sea, And folk shall call it England in the days that are going to be. There more than one in a thousand in the days that are yet to come, Shall have some hope of the morrow, some joy of the ancient home. For then, laugh not, but listen to this strange tale of mine, All folk that are in England shall be better lodged than swine. Then a man shall work and bethink him, and rejoice in the deeds of his hand, Nor yet come home in the even too faint and weary to stand. Men in that time a-coming shall work and have no fear For to-morrow's lack of earning and the hunger-wolf anear. I tell you this for a wonder, that no man then shall be glad Of his fellow's fall and mishap to snatch at the work he had. For that which the worker winneth shall then be his indeed, Nor shall half be reaped for nothing by him that sowed no seed. O strange new wonderful justice! But for whom shall we gather the gain? For ourselves and for each of our fellows, and no hand shall labor in vain. Then all Mine and all Thine shall be Ours, and no more shall any man crave For riches that serve for nothing but to fetter a friend for a slave. And what wealth then shall be left us when none shall gather gold To buy his friend in the market, and pinch and pine the sold? Nay, what save the lovely city, and the little house on the hill, And the wastes and the woodland beauty, and the happy fields we till; And the homes of ancient stories, the tombs of the mighty dead; And the wise men seeking out marvels, and the poet's teeming head; And the painter's hand of wonder; and the marvelous fiddlebow, And the banded choirs of music: all those that do and know. For all these shall be ours and all men's; nor shall any lack a share Of the toil and the gain of living in the days when the world grows fair. Ah! such are the days that shall be! But what are the deeds of to-day, In the days of the years we dwell in, that wear our lives away? Why, then, and for what are we waiting? There are three words to speak; We Will It, and what is the foeman but the dream-strong wakened and weak? O why and for what are we waiting? while our brothers droop and die, And on every wind of the heavens a wasted life goes by. How long shall they reproach us where crowd on crowd they dwell, Poor ghosts of the wicked city, the gold-crushed, hungry hell? Through squalid life they labored, in sordid grief they died, Those sons of a mighty mother, those props of England's pride. They are gone; there is none can undo it, nor save our souls from the curse; But many a million cometh, and shall they be better or worse? It is we must answer and hasten, and open wide the door For the rich man's hurrying terror, and the slow-foot hope of the poor. |