We’ve previously visited the poetry of Walter de La Mare on Games From Folktales, with his most famous work, The Listeners, in episode 115. For the next few months, we will be going through his early works, grabbing anything which might be an Ars Magica faerie or magical location. Let’s start with this.
I met at eve the Prince of sleep,
His was a still and lovely face;
He wander’d through a valley steep,
Lovely in a lonely place.
His garb was grey of lavender,
About his brows a poppy wreath
Burned like dim coals,
And everywhere
The air was sweeter for his breath.
His twilight feet no sandals wore,
His eyes shone faint in their own flame,
Fair moths that gloomed his steps before
Seemed letters of his lovely name.
His house is in the mountain ways,
A phantom house of misty walls,
Whose golden flocks at evening graze,
And witch the moon with muffled calls.
Upwelling from his shadowy springs
Sweet waters shake a trembling sound,
There flit the hoot owl’s silent wings,
There hath his web the silk worm wound.
Dark in his pools clear visions lurk,
And rosy, as with morning buds,
Along his dales of broom and birk
Dreams haunt his solitary woods.
I met at eve the Prince of sleep,
His was a still and lovely face;
He wander’d through a valley steep,
Lovely in a lonely place.
Thanks to Larry Wilson for the recording.
So, the King of Sleep has faerie eyes, and his castle is a regio. His presence, or his breath, is morphiating, and might be addictive. He can grant visions of the future. He is attended by glowing moths which enchant the viewer with pareidolic fancies.
Stats eventually.
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