Volume II Part 10 (1/2)
XXIV
Sprouting like the milky buds o' hawthorn in the night-time, Pouting like the snowy buds o' roses in July, Spreading in my chrysalist and waiting for the right time, When--I thought--they'd bust to wings and Bill would rise and fly, _Tick, tack, tick, tack_, as if it came in answer, Sweeping o'er my head again the tide o' dreams went by,-- _I must get to Piddinghoe to-morrow if I can, sir,_ _Tick, tack_, a crackle in my chrysalist, a cry!
Then the warm blue sky Bust the sh.e.l.l, and out crept Bill--a blooming b.u.t.terfly!
XXV
Blue as a corn-flower, blazed the zenith: the deepening East like a scarlet poppy Burned while, dazzled with golden bloom, white clouds like daisies, green seas like wheat, Gripping the sign-post, first, I climbs, to sun my wings, which were wrinkled and floppy, Spreading 'em white o'er the words _No Road_, and hanging fast by my six black feet.
XXVI
Still on my head was the battered old beaver, but through it my clubbed antennae slanted, (”Feelers” yourself would probably call 'em) my battered old boots were hardly seen Under the golden fluff of the tail! It was Bill, sir, Bill, though highly enchanted, Spreading his beautiful snow-white pinions, tipped with orange, and veined with green.
XXVII
Yus, old Bill was an Orange-tip, a spirit in glory, a blooming Psyche!
New, it was new from East to West this rummy old world that I dreamed I knew, How can I tell you the things that I saw with my--what shall _I_ call 'em?
--”feelers?”--O, crikey, ”FEELERS?” You know how the man born blind described such colours as scarlet or blue.
XXVIII
”Scarlet,” he says, ”is the sound of a trumpet, blue is a flute,”
for he hasn't a notion!
No, nor n.o.body living on earth can tell it him plain, if he hasn't the sight!
That's how it stands with ragged old Bill, a-drift and a-dream on a measureless ocean, Gifted wi' fifteen new-born senses, and seeing you blind to their new strange light.
XXIX
How can I tell you? Sir, you must wait, till you die like Bill, ere you understand it!
Only--I saw--the same as a bee that strikes to his hive ten leagues away-- Straight as a die, while I winked and blinked on that sun-warmed wood and my wings expanded (Whistler drawings that men call wings)--I saw--and I flew--that's all I can say.
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Flew over leagues of whispering wonder, fairy forests and flowery palaces, Love-lorn cas.e.m.e.nts, delicate kingdoms, beautiful flaming thoughts of--Him; Feasts of a million blue-mailed angels lifting their honey-and-wine-brimmed chalices, Throned upon clouds--(which you'd call white clover) down to the world's most rosiest rim.
x.x.xI
New and new and new and new, the white o' the cliffs and the wind in the heather, Yus, and the sea-gulls flying like flakes of the sea that flashed to the new-born day, Song, song, song, song, quivering up in the wild blue weather, Thousands of seraphim singing together, and me just flying and--_knowing my way_.
x.x.xII