d some are gold as daffodils,
But who, ah, who remembers, now, a little lad of mine?

Lady, we are dancing, as we danced in old England
When the may was more than may, very long ago:
As for our may-coats, it was your white hands, lady,
Filled our sooty hearts and minds with blossom, white as snow.

It was a beautiful face we saw, wandering through Cheltenham.
It was a beautiful song we heard, very far away,
Weeping for a little lad stolen by the gipsies,
Broke our hearts and filled 'em with the glory of the may.

Many a little lad had we, chirruping in the chimney-tops,
Twirling out a sooty broom, a blot against the blue.
Ah, but when we called to him, and when he saw and ran to her,
All our winter ended, and our world was made anew.

Then she gave us may-coats of gold and green and crimson,
Then, with a long garland, she led our hearts away,
Whispering, "Remember, though the boughs forget the hawthorn,
Yet shall I return to you, that was your lady May."--

But why are you dancing now, O chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham,
And why are you singing of a May that is fled?--
O, there's music to be born, though we pluck the old fiddle-strings,
And a world's May awaking where the fields lay dead.

And we dance, dance, dreaming of a lady most beautiful
That shall walk the green valleys of this dark earth one day,
And call to us gently, "O chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham,
I am looking for my children. Awake, and come away."

TO A SUCCESSFUL MAN

(_What the Ghosts Said_)

And after all the labour and the pains,
After the heaping up of gold on gold,
After success that locked your feet in chains,
And left you with a heart so tired and old,

Strange--is it not?--to find your chief desire
Is what you might have had for nothing then--
The face of love beside a cottage fire
And friendly laughter with your fellow-men?

You were so rich when fools esteemed you poor.
You ruled a field that kings could never buy;
The glory of the sea was at your door;
And all those quiet stars were in your sky.

The nook of ferns below the breathless wood
Where one poor book could unlock Paradise ...
What will you give us now for that lost good?
Better forget. You cannot pay the price.

You left them for the fame in which you trust.
But youth, and hope--did you forsake them, too?
Courage! When dust at length returns to dust,
In your last dreams they may come back to you.

THE OLD