Sidney Lanier

Here you will find the Long Poem The Hard Times In Elfland of poet Sidney Lanier

The Hard Times In Elfland

A Story of Christmas Eve.

Strange that the termagant winds should scold
 The Christmas Eve so bitterly!
But Wife, and Harry the four-year-old,
 Big Charley, Nimblewits, and I,

Blithe as the wind was bitter, drew
 More frontward of the mighty fire,
Where wise Newfoundland Fan foreknew
 The heaven that Christian dogs desire --

Stretched o'er the rug, serene and grave,
 Huge nose on heavy paws reclined,
With never a drowning boy to save,
 And warmth of body and peace of mind.

And, as our happy circle sat,
 The fire well capp'd the company:
In grave debate or careless chat,
 A right good fellow, mingled he:

He seemed as one of us to sit,
 And talked of things above, below,
With flames more winsome than our wit,
 And coals that burned like love aglow.

While thus our rippling discourse rolled
 Smooth down the channel of the night,
We spoke of Time: thereat, one told
 A parable of the Seasons' flight.

"Time was a Shepherd with four sheep.
 In a certain Field he long abode.
He stood by the bars, and his flock bade leap
 One at a time to the Common Road.

"And first there leapt, like bird on wing,
 A lissome Lamb that played in the air.
I heard the Shepherd call him `Spring':
 Oh, large-eyed, fresh and snowy fair

"He skipped the flowering Highway fast,
 Hurried the hedgerows green and white,
Set maids and men a-yearning, passed
 The Bend, and gamboll'd out of sight.

"And next marched forth a matron Ewe
 (While Time took down a bar for her),
Udder'd so large 'twas much ado
 E'en then to clear the barrier.

"Full softly shone her silken fleece
 What stately time she paced along:
Each heartsome hoof-stroke wrought increase
 Of sunlight, substance, seedling, song,

"In flower, in fruit, in field, in bird,
 Till the great globe, rich fleck'd and pied,
Like some large peach half pinkly furred,
 Turned to the sun a glowing side

"And hung in the heavenly orchard, bright,
 None-such, complete.
 Then, while the Ewe
Slow passed the Bend, a blur of light,
 The Shepherd's face in sadness grew:

"`Summer!' he said, as one would say
 A sigh in syllables. So, in haste
(For shame of Summer's long delay,
 Yet gazing still what way she paced),

"He summoned Autumn, slanting down
 The second bar. Thereover strode
A Wether, fleeced in burning brown,
 And largely loitered down the Road.

"Far as the farmers sight his shape
 Majestic moving o'er the way,
All cry `To harvest,' crush the grape,
 And haul the corn and house the hay,

"Till presently, no man can say,
 (So brown the woods that line that end)
If yet the brown-fleeced Wether may,
 Or not, have passed beyond the Bend.

"Now turn I towards the Shepherd: lo,
 An aged Ram, flapp'd, gnarly-horn'd,
With bones that crackle o'er the snow,
 Rheum'd, wind-gall'd, rag-fleec'd, burr'd and thorn'd.

"Time takes the third bar off for him,
 He totters down the windy lane.
'Tis Winter, still: the Bend lies dim.
 O Lamb, would thou wouldst leap again!"

Those seasons out, we talked of these:
 And I (with inward purpose sly
To shield my purse from Christmas trees
 And stockings and wild robbery

When Hal and Nimblewits invade
 My cash in Santa Claus's name)
In full the hard, hard times surveyed;
 Denounced all waste as crime and shame;

Hinted that "waste" might be a term
 Including skates, velocipedes,
Kites, marbles, soldiers, towers infirm,
 Bows, arrows, cannon, Indian reeds,

Cap-pistols, drums, mechanic toys,
 And all th' infernal host of horns
Whereby to strenuous hells of noise
 Are turned the blessed Christmas morns;

Thus, roused -- those horns! -- to sacred rage,
 I rose, forefinger high in air,
When Harry cried (SOME war to wage),
 "Papa, is hard times ev'ywhere?

"Maybe in Santa Claus's land
 It isn't hard times none at all!"
Now, blessed Vision! to my hand
 Most pat, a marvel strange did fall.

Scarce had my Harry ceased, when "Look!"
 He cried, leapt up in wild alarm,
Ran to my Comrade, shelter took
 Beneath the startled mother's arm.

And so was still: what time we saw
 A foot hang down the fireplace! Then,
With painful scrambling scratched and raw,
 Two hands that seemed like hands of men

Eased down two legs and a body through
 The blazing fire, and forth there came
Before our wide and wondering view
 A figure shrinking half with shame,

And half with weakness. "Sir," I said,
 -- But with a mien of dignity
The seedy stranger raised his head:
 "My friends, I'm Santa Claus," said he.

But oh, how changed! That rotund face
 The new moon rivall'd, pale and thin;
Where once was cheek, now empty space;
 Whate'er stood out