What Power

Faire Fashion's Way - VI

What power is here evok'd
That from the dead of ages past a new life is awoke?
What calls them here to sport the while
And spread before us pageantry, and then like smoke
Disperse into the air?
What magic this that raises ghosts of long past lives
And dreams of honors or of lands,
Of lover's kiss or enemy's chagrin?
The sunlight gleams upon the fabric of the faire,
Reveals the patterns of the tapestry,
Falls sharp upon the polish'd steel,
And then conceals in dappled shadow subtle threads,
Like harpstrings singing several
When but one is pluck'd.
A power moves within the light and shadow of the glade,
Full in the sun of village streets,
And hidden from the sight in cottage
And in craftsman's stall,
In tents set round the gypsy camp,
In alehouse, inn, and guildhall proud.
The power moves through rents in time and space,
And shows the picture as it was before,
Yet never was, yet is;
It plays upon the ancient and the babe
And all betwixt, and though all flesh decays,
This spirit seeming magic-wrought doth call
The very soul of by-gone age again
To life and lust and gain and loss, to pride
And place, and thus to pleasure and to pain
Long gone to dust. It seemeth naught hath died,
But hid within the depth of earth's dark womb
A little time hath waited call to play
And weave anew such scenes upon the loom
Of life, and pluck such tunes as we today
Find moving in our hearts. What power is this
That sounds a note to set in motion all
Of kindred kind?