The Phantom

'Upstairs in the large closet, child,
    This side the blue-room door,
Is an old Bible, bound in leather,
    Standing upon the floor;

'Go with this taper, bring it me;
    Carry it on your arm;
It is the book on many a sea
    Hath stilled the waves' alarm.'

Late the hour, dark the night,
    The house is solitary,
Feeble is a taper's light
    To light poor Ann to see.

Her eyes are yet with visions bright
    Of sylph and river, flower and fay,
Now through a narrow corridor
    She takes her lonely way.

Vast shadows on the heedless walls
    Gigantic loom, stoop low:
Each little hasty footfall calls
    Hollowly to and fro.

In the dim solitude her heart
    Remembers tearlessly
White winters when her mother was
    Her loving company.

Now in the dark clear glass she sees
    A taper mocking hers, -
A phantom face of light blue eyes,
    Reflecting phantom fears.

Around her loom the vacant rooms,
    Wind the upward stairs,
She climbs on into a loneliness
    Only her taper shares.

Her grandmother is deaf with age;
    A garden of moonless trees
Would answer not though she should cry
    In anguish on her knees.

So that she scarcely heeds - so fast
    Her pent-up heart doth beat -
When, faint along the corridor,
    Falleth the sound of feet: -

Sounds lighter than silk slippers make
    Upon a ballroom floor, when sweet
Violin and 'cello wake
    Music for twirling feet.

O! in an old unfriendly house,
    What shapes may not conceal
Their faces in the open day,
    At night abroad to steal?

Even her taper seems with fear
    To languish small and blue;
Far in the woods the winter wind
    Runs whistling through.

A dreadful cold plucks at each hair,
    Her mouth is stretched to cry,
But sudden, with a gush of joy,
    It narrows to a sigh.

It is a wilding child which comes
    Swift through the corridor,
Singing an old forgotten song,
    This ancient burden bore: -

'Thorn, thorn, I wis,
And roses twain,
    A red rose and a white,
Stoop in the blossom, bee, and kiss
    A lonely child good-night.

'Swim fish, sing bird,
And sigh again,
    I that am lost am lone,
Bee in the blossom never stirred
    Locks hid beneath a stone!' -

Her eye was of the azure fire
    That hovers in wintry flame;
Her raiment wild and yellow as furze
    That spouteth out the same;

And in her hand she bore no flower,
    But on her head a wreath
Of faded flag-flowers that did yet
    Smell sweetly after death.

Clear was the light of loveliness
    That lit her face like rain;
And sad the mouth that uttered
    Her immemorial strain.

    *    *    *    *

Gloomy with night the corridor
    Is now that she is gone,
Albeit this solitary child
    No longer seems alone.

Fast though her taper dwindles down,
    Heavy and thick the tome,
A beauty beyond fear to dim
    Haunts now her alien home.

Ghosts in the world malignant, grim,
    Vex many a wood, and glen,
And house, and pool, - the unquiet ghosts
    Of dead and restless men.

But in her grannie's house this spirit -
    A child as lone as she -
Pining for love not found on earth,
    Ann dreams again to see.

Seated upon her tapestry-stool,
    Her fairy-book laid by,
She gazes in the fire, knowing
    She hath sweet company.

Walter De La Mare

Walter De La Mare

Walter De La Mare was an English poet, short story writer, and novelist, best remembered for his works for children and his poem "The Listeners". Born in 1873 in Charlton, Kent, De La Mare's unique blend of haunting, dreamlike imagery and masterful command of language earned him a lasting place in English literature. He was awarded the Order of Merit in 1953, and his works continue to be celebrated for their ethereal and evocative quality.

Walter De La Mare

English

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The Lock Of Hair.

It is in sooth a lovely tress,
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As glossy as the plumes that dress
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Sam's Three Wishes; Or Life's Little Whirligig

"I'm thinking and thinking," said old Sam Shore,
"'Twere somebody knocking I heard at the door."

From the clock popped the cuckoo and cuckooed out eight,
As there in his chair he wondering sate ...
"There's no one I knows on would come so late,
A-clicking the latch of an empty house
With nobbut inside 'un but me and a mouse....
Maybe a-waking in sleep I be,
And 'twere out of a dream came that tapping to me."
At length he cautiously rose, and went,
And with thumb upon latch awhile listening bent,
Then slowly drew open the door. And behold!
There stood a Fairy! - all green and gold,
Mantled up warm against dark and cold,
And smiling up into his candle shine,
Lips like wax, and cheeks like wine,
As saucy and winsome a thing to see
As are linden ...

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The Journey

Heart-sick of his journey was the Wanderer;
    Footsore and parched was he;
And a Witch who long had lurked by the wayside,
    Looked out of sorcery.

"Lift up your eyes, you lonely Wanderer,"
    She peeped from her casement small;
"Here's shelter and quiet to give you rest, young man,
    And apples for thirst withal."

And he looked up out of his sad reverie,
    And saw all the woods in green,
With birds that flitted feathered in the dappling,
    The jewel-bright leaves between.

And he lifted up his face towards her lattice,
    And there, alluring-wise,
Slanting through the silence of the long past,
    Dwelt the still green Witch's eyes.

And vaguely from the hiding-place of memory
    Voices seemed to cry;
"What is the ...

Walter De La Mare

The Journey

Heart-sick of his journey was the Wanderer;
Footsore and sad was he;
And a Witch who long had lurked by the wayside,
Looked out of sorcery.

'Lift up your eyes, you lonely Wanderer,'
She peeped from her casement small;
'Here's shelter and quiet to give you rest, young man,
And apples for thirst withal.'

And he looked up out of his sad reverie,
And saw all the woods in green,
With birds that flitted feathered in the dappling,
The jewel-bright leaves between.

And he lifted up his face towards her lattice,
And there, alluring-wise,
Slanting through the silence of the long past,
Dwelt the still green Witch's eyes.

And vaguely from the hiding-place of memory
Voices seemed to cry;
'What is the darkness of one brief life-time
To ...

Walter De La Mare

The Feaster

Oh, who will hush that cry outside the doors,
    While we are glad within?
Go forth, go forth, all you my servitors;
    (And gather close, my kin.)
Go out to her. Tell her we keep a feast,--
    Lost Loveliness who will not sit her down
        Though we implore.
It is her silence binds me unreleased,
    It is her silence that no flute can drown,
        It is her moonlit silence at the door,
Wide as the whiteness, but a fire on high
    That frights my heart with an immortal Cry,
        Calling me evermore.

Louder, you viols;--louder, O my harp;
    Let me not hear her voice;
And drown her keener silence, silver-sharp,
    With waves of golden noise!
For she is wise as Eden, even mute,
    To search my spirit through the deep and height

Josephine Preston Peabody