at all into the glade, Save when the white sack-laden wagons made Wheel-creaking in the shadowy, slanting road And the great horses strained against the load; Or when some trout would splash in the pool perhaps, Or my old pointer from his pendulous chaps Bayed at the very stillness. In the house It was so strangely quiet that the mouse Held carnival at midday on the floor. The hearths were lined with Holland picture tiles Of olden stories of enchanters’ wiles; And knights, stiff-seeming, upon stiffer steeds Hasting to help fair ladies at their needs; And bible tales, of prophets and of kings; And faery ones, of midnight, meadow rings Whereon, at mild star-rise, the wanton elves Dance, having cleared the grass blades for themselves As we men clear a forest; and besides Of phantom castles and of woodland rides, Of convent cloisters and religious veils And all suchlike, were drawn a hundred tales; And therein was the swinging censer showed, And therein altar candles feebly glowed And the bent priest upraised the sacred host. And when the dusk drew on, in times of frost, And new fires sparkled on the clean swept hearth And with pale tongues and laughing sound of mirth Licked the dry wood and carven iron dogs Whereon was piled the treasure of the logs, In the red glow that rose and waned again The pictured figures writhed as if in pain, Elijah shook his mantle, and the knight His spear, and ’mong the elves of foot-fall light One saw the dance grow faster, till the flame Once more drew in, and all things were the same.
Nor were there wanting fleshlier joys than these; For as the night grew closer and the trees Hissed in the wind, before the ruddy fire Was spread the napkin, white to a desire, Laid out with silver vessels and brown bread And some hot pasty smoking at the head With odorous vapour, and the jug afloat With bitter, amber ale that stings the throat Or figured glasses full of purple wine. Or should one ask for pleasures more divine, Then let him draw toward the pleasant blaze And in the warm still chamber, let him raise Blue wreaths of pungent vapor from the bowl, That glows and dusks like an ignited coal At every inhalation of sweet smoke. So shall he clear a stage for that quaint folk, The brood of