Brother Bulleys, let us sing

   From the dawn till evening!—

For we know not that we go not

   When the day’s pale pinions fold

   Unto those who sang of old.

   When I flew to Blackmoor Vale,

   Whence the green-gowned faeries hail,

Roosting near them I could hear them

   Speak of queenly Nature’s ways,

   Means, and moods,—well known to fays.

   All we creatures, nigh and far

   (Said they there), the Mother’s are:

Yet she never shows endeavour

   To protect from warrings wild

   Bird or beast she calls her child.

   Busy in her handsome house

   Known as Space, she falls a-drowse;

Yet, in seeming, works on dreaming,

   While beneath her groping hands

   Fiends make havoc in her bands.

   How her hussif’ry succeeds

   She unknows or she unheeds,

All things making for Death’s taking!

   —So the green-gowned faeries say

   Living over Blackmoor way.

   Come then, brethren, let us sing,

   From the dawn till evening!—

For we know not that we go not

   When the day’s pale pinions fold

   Unto those who sang of old.