To Sir Noel Paton

I lay in the depths of dreamland,
Above me the sky was clear,
And only a single blue-bell
Was nodding close to my ear.
I watched it swaying and bending,
As if a fairy's hand
Had lightly touched it in passing
To her home in fairyland.
Then all at once from the blossom
That was nodding at my head
Came the tiniest of voices,
And this was what it said—
'O, poet, dreaming in dreamland,
With eyes half hid by the hand,
Well is it for one sweet moment
Thou canst enter our own sweet land.
'But bring not the toil of the city
To this realm of sinless elves,
For a single echo would alter
The law that rules ourselves.
'We care not at all for mortals,
For their nature is not as ours;
We are spirits that haunt the woodland,
And our kinsfolk are the flowers.
'The seasons pass, but we know not,
For us no rough winds blow;
We do not know the meaning
 Of the falling of the snow.
'We come with the flowers of summer,
We fade with the flowers that die;
But we come up again when April
Smiles up at the blue of the sky.
'We cannot be seen of mortals,
For their purer vision is gone,
And this is why we may always
Be seen of the flowers alone.
'But what of the dreaming painter
Who came to us in his youth?
He saw us hold our revels,
For his heart was the heart of truth.
'What of the grand old painter?
Is he weary of cities and men?
Will he never come back to our revels
In our fairyland again?
'He saw us play in the moonlight,
He saw us dance by the stream,
He held our hands for a moment,
Does he still remember his dream?'
And I, who was idly lying
Where the dreams rose dim and sweet,
Heard the whisper of the blue-bell
And thus made answer meet—
'The painter is still in the city,
In the throng of the streets of men,
But the thoughts in his bosom wander
To your haunts by stream and glen.
'He still can hear you calling,
Though his hair is as white as snow,
For the heart in the old man's bosom
Is the heart of long ago.
'In his quiet hours he is dreaming
Of the moonlight falling between
The trees that make arches together
For the march of your Fairy Queen.
'He hears in such moments of silence
A tiny trumpet blown
Far off in the realms of dreamland,
And he knows that it is your own.
'Then his fancy sees the procession
Wind downward by the streams,
And full on the little pennons
A touch of moonlight gleams.
'He sees the blossoms waving
Their banners of yellow and blue,
While the humble bee is piping
A march to guide it through.
'Then it halts for a single moment
On a spot of brighter green,
And the painter feels on his forehead
The lips of the Fairy Queen,
'As light as when in the silence
The petal falls from the cup,
And not a breath is stirring,
Yet the painter wakens up.
'He smiles at his freaks of fancy,
If freaks of fancy they seem;
But the tears are wet on his eyelids,
For he still remembers his dream.
'But his thoughts are sadder and higher
In the streets of toiling men;
He has turned from his early visions,
And will never come back again.
'No more will he see you playing
In the moonlight's tender glow,
Though the heart that beats in his bosom
Is the heart of long ago.'
Then a sigh went through the woodland,
A long soft sigh of regret;
It bowed the head of the primrose,
And it touched the violet.
It shook the leaves of the bindweed
Where the summer shadows were cool;
It stirred the tiniest ripple
On the mirror of the pool.
I woke, but was it from dreamland,
And where had my fancies been?
Was it the blue-bell's whisper,
Or that of the Fairy Queen?