To a Fairy.

Discovered in the early morning dancing on a dewdrop.

Dance, little one, dance!
Poised delicately
Upon your tiny crystal-shimmering world:
What whim, or chance
Makes you to dance this young sweet-breathing morn,
Wings furled—
Sporting there,
Limbs lightly tossing in the lucent air
In happy scorn
Of all earth's bitter troubles, trouble-born?
We are sunk deep,
Deep in despondencies, and even in sleep
Troubled, we toss—
Count o'er the petty gain, the mighty loss
Of all we dearest hold, lose hardiest…
You simple one,
Look on the world and weep,
See all the things men do—
None,
None but maketh the rest
Of all God's creatures shun
Them, for their greater shame.
But you
Having no name, nor fame,
Nor trouble, nor sad thought
Wearily to think on, leap,
Higher you leap
In the morning-sweet air, and fall
Back to the shining globe of your dancing-stage.
Ah! do you wage
Desolation war in your land? Do you call
Desolation, peace?
Answerless? Mute?…
Well, do you dance.
Having the better part—
Dance to the flute
Of the wind, as it breathes without cease:
Dance delicately tip-toed, dance—
Toss each limb
Airily, to the whim
That lightly takes your happy, happy heart.,.
Then leap, cling
To a bee's wing
Float on his 'broidered back to a purple flower—
Enter, and sing
The sweet-scented hour…
Now delicately, daintily,
Dance!

J. C. B.