“O Rafe, my love of long ago! 
Draw forth thy father’s blade,
And blow the horn for friend and foe,
And the good green-wood to aid!”

He turned and took the slug-horn up,
And set it to his mouth,
And o’er that meadow of the cup
Blew east and west and south.

He drew the sword from out the sheath
And shook the fallow brand;
And there a while with bated breath,
And hearkening ear did stand.

Him-seemed the horn’s voice he might hear—­
Or the wind that blew o’er all. 
Him-seemed that footsteps drew anear—­
Or the boughs shook round the hall.

Him-seemed he heard a voice he knew—­
Or a dream of while agone. 
Him-seemed bright raiment towards him drew—­
Or bright the sun-set shone.

She stood before him face to face,
With the sun-beam thwart her hand,
As on the gold of the Holy Place
The painted angels stand.

With many a kiss she closed his eyes;
She kissed him cheek and chin: 
E’en so in the painted Paradise
Are Earth’s folk welcomed in.

There in the door the green-coats stood,
O’er the bows went up the cry,
“O welcome, Rafe, to the free green-wood,
With us to live and die.”

It was bill and bow by the high-seat stood,
And they cried above the bows,
“Now welcome, Rafe, to the good green-wood,
And welcome Kate the Rose!”

White, white in the moon is the woodland plash,
White is the woodland glade,
Forth wend those twain, from oak to ash,
With light hearts unafraid.

The summer moon high o’er the hill,
All silver-white is she,
And Sir Rafe’s good men with bow and bill,
They go by two and three.

In the fair green-wood where lurks no fear,
Where the King’s writ runneth not,
There dwell they, friends and fellows dear,
While summer days are hot.

And when the leaf from the oak-tree falls,
And winds blow rough and strong,
With the carles of the woodland thorps and halls
They dwell, and fear no wrong.

And there the merry yule they make,
And see the winter wane,
And fain are they for true-love’s sake,
And the folk thereby are fain.

For the ploughing carle and the straying herd
Flee never for Sir Rafe: 
No barefoot maiden wends afeard,
And she deems the thicket safe.

But sore adread do the chapmen ride;
Wide round the wood they go;
And the judge and the sergeants wander wide,
Lest they plead before the bow.

Well learned and wise is Sir Rafe’s good sword,
And straight the arrows fly,
And they find the coat of many a lord,
And the crest that rideth high.

THE DAY OF DAYS

Each eve earth falleth down the dark,
As though its hope were o’er;
Yet lurks the sun when day is done
Behind to-morrow’s door.