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Poem	Bother Bulleys, let us sing From the dawn till evening! - For we know not that we go not When the day's pale pinions fold Unto those who sang of old. When I flew to Blackmoor Vale, Whence the green-gowned faeries hail, Roosting near them I could hear them Speak of queenly Nature's ways, Means, and moods,--well known to fays. All we creatures, nigh and far (Said they there), the Mother's are: Yet she never shows endeavour To protect from warrings wild Bird or beast she calls her child. Busy in her handsome house Known as Space, she falls a-drowse; Yet, in seeming, works on dreaming, While beneath her groping hands Fiends make havoc in her bands. How her hussif'ry succeeds She unknows or she unheeds, All things making for Death's taking! --So the green-gowned faeries say Living over Blackmoor way. Come then, brethren, let us sing, From the dawn till evening! - For we know not that we go not When the day's pale pinions fold Unto those who sang of old.
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