And there's never a leaf or a blade too mean

To be some happy creature's palace; The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun

With the deluge of summer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,

And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and

sings;

He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

Now is the high-tide of the year,

And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, We are happy now because God wills it; No matter how barren the past may have been, 'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green; We sit in the warm shade and feel right well How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing That skies are clear and grass is growing;

The breeze comes whispering in our ear,

That dandelions are blossoming near,

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,

That the river is bluer than the sky,

That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For other couriers we should not lack;

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,— And hark! how clear bold chanticleer, Warmed with the new wine of the year, Tells all in his lusty crowing!

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;
Everything is happy now,

Everything is upward striving;

'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, -
'T is the natural way of living:

Who knows whither the clouds have fled?

In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; The soul partakes the season's youth,

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.

What wonder if Sir Launfal now
Remembered the keeping of his vow?

PART FIRST

I

"My golden spurs now bring to me,
And bring to me my richest mail,
For to-morrow I go over land and sea
In search of the Holy Grail;
Shall never a bed for me be spread,
Nor shall a pillow be under my head,

Till I begin my vow to keep;

Here on the rushes will I sleep,

And perchance there may come a vision true
Ere day create the world anew."

Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim,
Slumber fell like a cloud on him,

And into his soul the vision flew.

II

The crows flapped over by twos and threes,
In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees,
The little birds sang as if it were

The one day of summer in all the year,

And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees: The castle alone in the landscape lay

Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray:

'T was the proudest hall in the North Countree, And never its gates might opened be,

Save to lord or lady of high degree ;
Summer besieged it on every side,

But the churlish stone her assaults defied;
She could not scale the chilly wall,

Though around it for leagues her pavilions tall

Stretched left and right,

Over the hills and out of sight;

Green and broad was every tent,

And out of each a murmur went Till the breeze fell off at night.

III

The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang,
And through the dark arch a charger sprang,

Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight,
In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright

It seemed the dark castle had gathered all

Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall

In his siege of three hundred summers long,
And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf,
Had cast them forth: so, young and strong,
And lightsome as a locust-leaf,

Sir Launfal flashed forth in his maiden mail,
To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail.

IV

It was morning on hill and stream and tree,
And morning in the young knight's heart;
Only the castle moodily

Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free,
And gloomed by itself apart;

The season brimmed all other things up

Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's cup.

As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome

gate,

He was 'ware of a leper, crouched by the same, Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate; And a loathing over Sir Launfal came;

The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill,

The flesh 'neath his armor 'gan shrink and

crawl,

And midway its leap his heart stood still

Like a frozen waterfall;

For this man, so foul and bent of stature,
Rasped harshly against his dainty nature,

And seemed the one blot on the summer morn,
So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn.

VI

The leper raised not the gold from the dust : "Better to me the poor man's crust,

Better the blessing of the poor,

Though I turn me empty from his door;
That is no true alms which the hand can hold :

He gives only the worthless gold

Who gives from a sense of duty;

But he who gives but a slender mite,
And gives to that which is out of sight,

That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty
Which runs through all and doth all unite, -
The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms,
The heart outstretches its eager palms,
For a god goes with it and makes it store

To the soul that was starving in darkness before."

PRELUDE TO PART SECOND

DOWN swept the chill wind from the mountain peak,

From the snow five thousand summers old; On open wold and hilltop bleak

It had gathered all the cold,

And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek ; It carried a shiver everywhere

From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare;