And dress by yellow candle-light.

In summer, quite the other way,

I have to go to bed by day.

I have to go to bed and see

The birds still hopping on the tree,

Or hear the grown-up people's feet

Still going past me in the street.

And does it not seem hard to you,

When all the sky is clear and blue,

And I should like so much to play,

To have to go to bed by day?

second jelly post in a row but they were so cool!!

come share how I hear

busy old sea in whispers.

Moans rise from ancient depths

in ocean sighs

like crowds of ghost monsters.

Waves lash and fall & —

in roars and squalls

with all a mystery ahhh!

hands of men

Thistles spike the summer air

Or crackle open under a blue-black pressure.

Every one a revengeful burst

Of resurrection, a grasped fistful

Of splintered weapons and Icelandic frost thrust up

From the underground stain of a decayed Viking.

They are like pale hair and the gutturals of dialects.

Every one manages a plume of blood.

Then they grow grey, like men.

Mown down, it is a feud. Their sons appear,

Stiff with weapons, fighting back over the same ground.

Not my best side, I'm afraid.

The artist didn't give me a chance to

Pose properly, and as you can see,

Poor chap, he had this obsession with

Triangles, so he left off two of my

Feet. I didn't comment at the time

(What, after all, are two feet

To a monster?) but afterwards

I was sorry for the bad publicity.

Why, I said to myself, should my conqueror

Be so ostentatiously beardless, and ride

A horse with a deformed neck and square hoofs?

Why should my victim be so

Unattractive as to be inedible,

And why should she have me literally

On a string? I don't mind dying

Ritually, since I always rise again,

But I should have liked a little more blood

To show they were taking me seriously.

II

It's hard for a girl to be sure if

She wants to be rescued. I mean, I quite

Took to the dragon. It's nice to be

Liked, if you know what I mean. He was

So nicely physical, with his claws

And lovely green skin, and that sexy tail,

And the way he looked at me,

He made me feel he was all ready to

Eat me. And any girl enjoys that.

So when this boy turned up, wearing machinery,

On a really dangerous horse, to be honest

I didn't much fancy him. I mean,

What was he like underneath the hardware?

He might have acne, blackheads or even

Bad breath for all I could tell, but the dragon--

Well, you could see all his equipment

At a glance. Still, what could I do?

The dragon got himself beaten by the boy,

And a girl's got to think of her future.

III

I have diplomas in Dragon

Management and Virgin Reclamation.

My horse is the latest model, with

Automatic transmission and built-in

Obsolescence. My spear is custom-built,

And my prototype armour

Still on the secret list. You can't

Do better than me at the moment.

I'm qualified and equipped to the

Eyebrow. So why be difficult?

Don't you want to be killed and/or rescued

In the most contemporary way? Don't

You want to carry out the roles

That sociology and myth have designed for you?

Don't you realize that, by being choosy,

You are endangering job-prospects

In the spear- and horse-building industries?

What, in any case, does it matter what

You want? You're in my way.

Tell me, dearest daughter,

Why are you holding in your hand

A thimbleful of water?

Why do you hold it to your eye

And gaze both late and soon

From early morning light until

The rising of the moon?

Mother, I hear the mermaids cry,

I hear the mermen sing,

And I can see the sailing-ships

All made of sticks and string.

And I can see the jumping fish,

The whales that fall and rise

And swim about the waterspout

That swarms up to the skies.

Tell me, tell me, Sarah Jane,

Tell your darling mother,

Why do you walk beside the tide

As though you loved none other?

Why do you listen to a shell

And watch the billows curl,

And throw away your diamond ring

And wear instead the pearl?

Mother, I hear the water

Beneath the headland pinned,

And I can see the sea-gull

Sliding down the wind.

I taste the salt upon my tongue

As sweet as sweet can be.

Tell me, my dear, whose voice you hear?

It is the sea, the sea.

Wrapped in your nest,

Strapped in your nest,

Your straight little cradle-board rocks you to rest;

Its hands are your nest;

Its bands are your nest;

It swings from the down-bending branch of the oak;

You watch the camp flame, and the curling grey

smoke;

But, oh, for your pretty black eyes sleep is best,—

Little brown baby of mine, go to rest.

Little brown baby-bird swinging to sleep,

Winging to sleep,

Singing to sleep,

Your wonder-black eyes that so wide open keep,

Shielding their sleep,

Unyielding to sleep,

The heron is homing, the plover is still,

The night-owl calls from his haunt on the hill,

Afar the fox barks, afar the stars peep,—

Little brown baby of mine, go to sleep.

In the great silence of snow,

A child was sighing

And bitterly saying: "Oh,

They have killed a white bird up there on her nest,

The down is fluttering from her breast."

And still it fell through that dusky brightness

On the child crying for the bird of the snow.

and sang songs to the sea

I told my secrets to the waves

and they told theirs to me.

Now there are no more hummingbirds

the sea’s songs are all sad

for strange men came and took this land

and plundered all we had.

They made my people into slaves

they worked us to the bone

they battered us and tortured us

and laughed to hear us groan.

Today we’ll take a long canoe

and set sail on the sea

we’ll steer our journey by the stars

and find a new country.

Castles and palaces, temples and docks.

Rain may keep raining, and others go roam,

But I can be happy and building at home.

Let the sofa be mountains, the carpet be sea,

There I'll establish a city for me:

A kirk and a mill and a palace beside,

And a harbor as well where my vessels may ride.

Great is the palace with pillar and wall,

A sort of a tower on top of it all,

And steps coming down in an orderly way

To where my toy vessels lie safe in the bay.

This one is sailing and that one is moored:

Hark to the song of the sailors on board!

And see on the steps of my palace, the kings

Coming and going with presents and things!