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And our own children’s garden-plots

Were there—our own forgetmenots,

35

Red daisies, cress and mustard,

And blue nemophilë.

O! all the borders* trimmed with box

Were full of favourite flowers—of phlox,

Of larkspur, pinks, and hollyhocks

40

Beneath a red may-tree:

And all the paths were full of shapes,

Of tumbling happy white-clad shapes,

And with them You and Me.*

And some had silver watering-cans

45

And watered all their gowns,

Or sprayed each other; some laid plans

To build them houses, fairy towns,*

Or dwellings in the trees;

And some were clambering on the roof;

50

Some crooning lonely and aloof;

And some were dancing fairy-rings

And weaving pearly daisy-strings,

Or chasing golden bees;

But here and there a little pair

55

With rosy cheeks and tangled hair

Debated quaint old childish things*—*

And we were one of these.

Lines 58–65 (p. 30) were subsequently rewritten:

But why it was there came a time

When we could take the road no more,

Though long we looked, and high would climb,

Or gaze from many a seaward shore

To find the path between sea and sky

To those old gardens of delight;

And how it goes now in that land,

If there the house and gardens stand,

Still filled with children clad in white—

We know not, You and I.

And why it was Tomorrow came

And with his grey hand led us back;

60

And why we never found the same

Old cottage, or the magic track

That leads between a silver sea*

And those old shores* and gardens fair

Where all things are, that ever were—

65

We know not, You and Me.*

This is the final version of the poem:

The Little House of Lost Play

Mar Vanwa Tyaliéva

We knew that land once, You and I,

and once we wandered there

in the long days now long gone by,

a dark child and a fair.

5

Was it on the paths of firelight thought

in winter cold and white,

or in the blue-spun twilit hours

of little early tucked-up beds

in drowsy summer night,

10

that you and I in Sleep went down

to meet each other there,

your dark hair on your white nightgown

and mine was tangled fair?

We wandered shyly hand in hand,

15

small footprints in the golden sand,

and gathered pearls and shells in pails,

while all about the nightingales

were singing in the trees.

We dug for silver with our spades,

20

and caught the sparkle of the seas,

then ran ashore to greenlit glades,

and found the warm and winding lane

that now we cannot find again,

between tall whispering trees.

25

The air was neither night nor day,

an ever-eve of gloaming light,

when first there glimmered into sight

the Little House of Play.

New-built it was, yet very old,

30

white, and thatched with straws of gold,

and pierced with peeping lattices

that looked toward the sea;

and our own children’s garden-plots

were there: our own forgetmenots,

35

red daisies, cress and mustard,

and radishes for tea.

There all the borders, trimmed with box,

were filled with favourite flowers, with phlox,

with lupins, pinks, and hollyhocks,

40

beneath a red may-tree;

and all the gardens full of folk

that their own little language spoke,

but not to You and Me.

For some had silver watering-cans

45

and watered all their gowns,

or sprayed each other; some laid plans

to build their houses, little towns

and dwellings in the trees.

And some were clambering on the roof;

50

some crooning lonely and aloof;

some dancing round the fairy-rings

all garlanded in daisy-strings,

while some upon their knees

before a little white-robed king

55

crowned with marigold would sing

their rhymes of long ago.

But side by side a little pair

with heads together, mingled hair,

went walking to and fro

60

still hand in hand; and what they said,

ere Waking far apart them led,

that only we now know.

It is notable that the poem was called The Cottage, or The Little House of