 | With the Wild Geese |  |
41
IN THE ARAN ISLES
43
HONOR'S GRAVE
Tender soul of womanhood,
All her silent suffering past,
Pious, pitiful, and good,
Safe at last;
Sheltered from the rough wind's blast.
All her silent suffering past,
Pious, pitiful, and good,
Safe at last;
Sheltered from the rough wind's blast.
Veiling mists, which come and go,
With transparent fingers mark
Where she lies. Remote and low,
Hark! Oh hark!
What voice whispers through the dark?
With transparent fingers mark
Where she lies. Remote and low,
Hark! Oh hark!
What voice whispers through the dark?
44
Very soundly doth she sleep,
Though around the blown-sand flies,
Though above the storm-clouds sweep
The burdened skies.
She hears nothing where she lies.
Though around the blown-sand flies,
Though above the storm-clouds sweep
The burdened skies.
She hears nothing where she lies.
Ancient cross, misused and grey,
Ancient cross, with broken arms,
Hold her, shield her night and day,
Safe from harms;
Shield her by thy sovereign charms.
Ancient cross, with broken arms,
Hold her, shield her night and day,
Safe from harms;
Shield her by thy sovereign charms.
Tiny snail-shells, pencilled, pale,
In the sands about her lie;
Tiny grass-tufts, thin and frail,
Cluster slenderly,
Gather round her tenderly.
In the sands about her lie;
Tiny grass-tufts, thin and frail,
Cluster slenderly,
Gather round her tenderly.
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Ave Maria! mother mild,
Mary, unto whom she prayed,
Shield thy loving-hearted child,
Gentle maid!
Shield the spot where she is laid.
Mary, unto whom she prayed,
Shield thy loving-hearted child,
Gentle maid!
Shield the spot where she is laid.
46
THE STRANGER'S GRAVE
[_]
In a graveyard upon Inishmaan, dedicated to unbaptized babies, an unknown drowned man lies buried
Little
feet too young and soft to walk,
Little lips too young and pure to talk,
Little faded grass-tufts, root and stalk.
Little lips too young and pure to talk,
Little faded grass-tufts, root and stalk.
I lie alone here, utterly alone,
Amid pure ashes my wild ashes mingle;
A drownèd man, without a name, unknown,
A drifting waif, flung by the drifting shingle.
Oh, plotting brain, and restless heart of mine,
What strange fate brought you to so strange a shrine?
Amid pure ashes my wild ashes mingle;
A drownèd man, without a name, unknown,
A drifting waif, flung by the drifting shingle.
Oh, plotting brain, and restless heart of mine,
What strange fate brought you to so strange a shrine?
47
Sometimes a woman comes across the grass,
Bare-footed, with pit-patterings scarcely heard,
Sometimes the grazing cattle slowly pass,
Or on my turf sings loud some mating bird.
Oh, plotting brain, and restless heart of mine,
What strange fate brought you to so strange a shrine?
Bare-footed, with pit-patterings scarcely heard,
Sometimes the grazing cattle slowly pass,
Or on my turf sings loud some mating bird.
Oh, plotting brain, and restless heart of mine,
What strange fate brought you to so strange a shrine?
Little feet too young ana soft to walk,
Little lips too young and pure to talk,
Little faded grass-tufts, root and stalk.
Little lips too young and pure to talk,
Little faded grass-tufts, root and stalk.
48
LOOKING EASTWARD
Written in 1885
Blurred is the arch of sky, mistily grey in the zenith,
Lost and void in the distance, filled with the haze of September.
Few and low gleam the lights, seen through the doors of the cabins,
Small red eyes of flame, set in brown time-wrinkled faces.
Overhead the clouds dart and scatter like sea-birds;
Underfoot, from its caverns, moans and murmurs Atlantic,
Moans and murmurs now, as it murmured and moaned at the dawning.
Eastward to-night I gaze, to where, like a wave grown hard,
Rises a long green ridge, set in the swell of the sea.
Puzzled, unquiet, despondent; wistfully scanning the shadows,
Muffled and lost in their gloom, as my eyes by these veiling vapours.
What are thy destinies, say? what are thy hopes, oh island?
What do the coming years, fraught with unguessable things,
Hold in their swelling bales, Starveling of Fortune, for thee?
Does that implacable star, coldly malignant, remorseless,
Still with its sinister ray beckon thee on to disaster?
Breaking the hearts of thy sons, breaking the hearts of thy lovers?
Lost and void in the distance, filled with the haze of September.
Few and low gleam the lights, seen through the doors of the cabins,
Small red eyes of flame, set in brown time-wrinkled faces.
Overhead the clouds dart and scatter like sea-birds;
Underfoot, from its caverns, moans and murmurs Atlantic,
49
Eastward to-night I gaze, to where, like a wave grown hard,
Rises a long green ridge, set in the swell of the sea.
Puzzled, unquiet, despondent; wistfully scanning the shadows,
Muffled and lost in their gloom, as my eyes by these veiling vapours.
What are thy destinies, say? what are thy hopes, oh island?
What do the coming years, fraught with unguessable things,
Hold in their swelling bales, Starveling of Fortune, for thee?
Does that implacable star, coldly malignant, remorseless,
50
Breaking the hearts of thy sons, breaking the hearts of thy lovers?
Never another land but has gathered some bountiful harvests.
Never another race but can boast of its moments of triumph.
Never another shore but some good bark has attained it,
Laden with spices and ore, laden with silks and with jewels,
Argosies rich and rare, argosies worth the unfolding.
Only thou, only thou, hast reaped no fortunate harvests;
Only thou, only thou, hast stood from the dawn to the gloaming
Holding out empty hands, pleading in vain to thy God;
Pleading with pitiful eyes, and a face grown grey with entreaty,
Pressing discomfited lips to the bountiful fountains of mercy,
Brimming, o'erbrimming, for others, parched and delusive for thee.
Century following century, still at the heels of the nations;
Poor, divided, derided; a wit-mark, and sport to the dull.
What, say what hast thou done, land not wanting in beauty?
What, say what hast thou done, race not wanting in spirit?
What antenatal guilt, hid in the womb of creation,
Robbed thee of honour and pelf, robbed thee of peace and of plenty?
Set thee in turbulent seas, hostile to commerce and fortune;
Girded thee in by a race, fortunate truly, and honest,
Noble, and gallant, and free, but narrow and niggard in judgment;
Reared thee a race of thine own, varied in aims as in blood,
Fitted to thrive and combine, forced by implacable fate
Further and further apart, as the years and the decades unroll;
Leaping to greet at a distance; set in the death-grips at home?
Never another race but can boast of its moments of triumph.
Never another shore but some good bark has attained it,
Laden with spices and ore, laden with silks and with jewels,
Argosies rich and rare, argosies worth the unfolding.
Only thou, only thou, hast reaped no fortunate harvests;
51
Holding out empty hands, pleading in vain to thy God;
Pleading with pitiful eyes, and a face grown grey with entreaty,
Pressing discomfited lips to the bountiful fountains of mercy,
Brimming, o'erbrimming, for others, parched and delusive for thee.
Century following century, still at the heels of the nations;
Poor, divided, derided; a wit-mark, and sport to the dull.
What, say what hast thou done, land not wanting in beauty?
What, say what hast thou done, race not wanting in spirit?
52
Robbed thee of honour and pelf, robbed thee of peace and of plenty?
Set thee in turbulent seas, hostile to commerce and fortune;
Girded thee in by a race, fortunate truly, and honest,
Noble, and gallant, and free, but narrow and niggard in judgment;
Reared thee a race of thine own, varied in aims as in blood,
Fitted to thrive and combine, forced by implacable fate
Further and further apart, as the years and the decades unroll;
Leaping to greet at a distance; set in the death-grips at home?
53
Hark, where the angelus sounds from yon little vapour-veiled chapel,
Sounding the note of peace, sounding the call to prayer,
Mark how it sweeps and floats, further and further east,
Carried along and aloft, as if guided and led through the mists,
Guided by grey-winged seraphs, speeded by all the saints.
Hast never a saint of thine own, land not wanting in sanctity,
Never a saint who can plead in yon cloud-hid sessions on high—
Standing erect, not crouching; a suitor not to be daunted,
Urging a manifest plea; claiming a right to be heard?
Then when the claim is made, then when the plea is heard,
Sudden, as when some frost breaks, and the world is glad,
Melting the obdurate ice, hard with the frost of the centuries,
Joy the magician appears; streams awaken and sing.
Wakens that land from its sleep, waken its sons from their stupor,
Rubbing astonished eyes, rid of the nightmare of ages.
Brother no longer 'gainst brother, hurting the heart of their mother;
Neighbour no longer 'gainst neighbour, rousing the scorn of the stranger;
Snatching precarious food from mouths already too empty;
Driving precarious gains from shores already too vacant.
Ah, but what of those sessions? Ah, but what of that suitor?
Was there ever so stalwart a saint, ever so dauntless a pleader;
Strong, persistent, resolved, vowed in the end to prevail?
Nay, I know not, I see not; nought see I but the vapours
Rolling eternally in; heavy, tenacious, unkind;
Thicker and thicker still, hiding the land in their clutches,
Wrapping it carefully round, as a corpse is wrapped in its cere-cloth;
Leaving me, feebly lamenting, here in the mist and the darkness,
Staring with purblind eyes; puzzled, unquiet, despondent.
Sounding the note of peace, sounding the call to prayer,
Mark how it sweeps and floats, further and further east,
Carried along and aloft, as if guided and led through the mists,
Guided by grey-winged seraphs, speeded by all the saints.
Hast never a saint of thine own, land not wanting in sanctity,
Never a saint who can plead in yon cloud-hid sessions on high—
Standing erect, not crouching; a suitor not to be daunted,
Urging a manifest plea; claiming a right to be heard?
54
Sudden, as when some frost breaks, and the world is glad,
Melting the obdurate ice, hard with the frost of the centuries,
Joy the magician appears; streams awaken and sing.
Wakens that land from its sleep, waken its sons from their stupor,
Rubbing astonished eyes, rid of the nightmare of ages.
Brother no longer 'gainst brother, hurting the heart of their mother;
Neighbour no longer 'gainst neighbour, rousing the scorn of the stranger;
Snatching precarious food from mouths already too empty;
55
Ah, but what of those sessions? Ah, but what of that suitor?
Was there ever so stalwart a saint, ever so dauntless a pleader;
Strong, persistent, resolved, vowed in the end to prevail?
Nay, I know not, I see not; nought see I but the vapours
Rolling eternally in; heavy, tenacious, unkind;
Thicker and thicker still, hiding the land in their clutches,
Wrapping it carefully round, as a corpse is wrapped in its cere-cloth;
Leaving me, feebly lamenting, here in the mist and the darkness,
Staring with purblind eyes; puzzled, unquiet, despondent.
56
A DREAM
Last night in dreams I seemed to slowly wend
Along a coast like this, all seared and bare,
And met you there, my old, my long-time friend,
And breathed old fragrance lingering in the air.
Along a coast like this, all seared and bare,
And met you there, my old, my long-time friend,
And breathed old fragrance lingering in the air.
For near a rock I found a curragh tied,
And, entering, floated down along the bay,
And now and then an idle oar I plied,
Then touched another headland, seared and grey.
And, entering, floated down along the bay,
And now and then an idle oar I plied,
Then touched another headland, seared and grey.
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There, in a cave, part open to the light,
I found you sitting, smiling, on the strand,
And all my heart sprang upwards at the sight,
And out I leaped, and gaily waved my hand.
“Old friend, what joy to find you here,” I said;
Then—all at once remembered you were dead.
I found you sitting, smiling, on the strand,
And all my heart sprang upwards at the sight,
And out I leaped, and gaily waved my hand.
“Old friend, what joy to find you here,” I said;
Then—all at once remembered you were dead.
58
ABOVE THE CLIFF
A Monologue
You say, Honorius, that this life they led
Here on the last verge of a worn-out world,
A life of adoration and of prayer,
A life outside of life; a life within
The life to be; a life whose every breath
Was one continuous supplicating cry
To Him who—be He who He may—they loved,
Proclaimed, feared, worshipped; this same life, you say,
Was a mere chasing of delusions; just
A shadow-dance; a harmless dream in short.
Their hope a dream, their faith a dream, their God
A dream perchance; their saints, in any case,
Good groping creatures, dead and gone to dust,
Used up to furbish fifty other lives,
Each one as dear, or little dear to her,
(The mighty, careless mother of us all,)
As theirs, or any other mortal's life.
Here on the last verge of a worn-out world,
A life of adoration and of prayer,
A life outside of life; a life within
The life to be; a life whose every breath
Was one continuous supplicating cry
To Him who—be He who He may—they loved,
Proclaimed, feared, worshipped; this same life, you say,
Was a mere chasing of delusions; just
A shadow-dance; a harmless dream in short.
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A dream perchance; their saints, in any case,
Good groping creatures, dead and gone to dust,
Used up to furbish fifty other lives,
Each one as dear, or little dear to her,
(The mighty, careless mother of us all,)
As theirs, or any other mortal's life.
Honorius, I am half upon your side,
Seeing that both of us are reared on doubt;
And yet, Honorius,—words are strange—look down,
Can you perceive, far off against the shore,
Where the pale surf just lips the dull green land,
Can you discern a little brownish speck—
A gable end, part of a low brown roof?
Under that low brown roof a woman lies,
And has lain there this five years past or more.
Dying, but very slowly; she may last
Another six months, so her neighbours tell me.
A while since, sitting for a space beside her,
And groping feebly through the forms of speech,
I traversed all the usual platitudes,
Painfully, one by one. Said, She was good;
Said, Patience was a marvellous antidote;
Said, Suffering seemed our common heritage;
And as a last resource, for crowning flatness,
That life was really very, very cruel.
To this she, lifting up her mild grey eyes,
Assented gently. Then as if remorseful,
Or in excuse for one unfairly chidden,
Added in mild apology, “Auch well,
What is it after all, but just a dream?”
Seeing that both of us are reared on doubt;
And yet, Honorius,—words are strange—look down,
Can you perceive, far off against the shore,
Where the pale surf just lips the dull green land,
60
A gable end, part of a low brown roof?
Under that low brown roof a woman lies,
And has lain there this five years past or more.
Dying, but very slowly; she may last
Another six months, so her neighbours tell me.
A while since, sitting for a space beside her,
And groping feebly through the forms of speech,
I traversed all the usual platitudes,
Painfully, one by one. Said, She was good;
Said, Patience was a marvellous antidote;
Said, Suffering seemed our common heritage;
And as a last resource, for crowning flatness,
That life was really very, very cruel.
To this she, lifting up her mild grey eyes,
Assented gently. Then as if remorseful,
61
Added in mild apology, “Auch well,
What is it after all, but just a dream?”
Mark that, Honorius! mark, your very word!
A dream! a dream! she held it all a dream.
But what? Not your dream, nothing less, good friend;
Her dream was now, her certainty to come.
Her waking day lay in the vast Beyond.
She held this poor pretence of yours and mine
At being alive; this thing of walks and talks,
Of sleep, food, play, work, and the rest of it
Not to be reckoned up as life at all,
A thing of nought, and therefore void of blame.
Why blame it, she would say, when all men knew
It had no substance, no reality,
But merely served the purpose of the moment,
And was a sort of mirage of the night,
That night which ushers in the true to-morrow?
A dream! a dream! she held it all a dream.
But what? Not your dream, nothing less, good friend;
Her dream was now, her certainty to come.
Her waking day lay in the vast Beyond.
She held this poor pretence of yours and mine
At being alive; this thing of walks and talks,
Of sleep, food, play, work, and the rest of it
Not to be reckoned up as life at all,
A thing of nought, and therefore void of blame.
62
It had no substance, no reality,
But merely served the purpose of the moment,
And was a sort of mirage of the night,
That night which ushers in the true to-morrow?
Honorius, is she right? or, friend, are you?
Or are you both right? And is all a dream?
This ridge on which we sit; those stones about us;
Yon poor rude chapel, battered by the storms;
Restless Atlantic, and his myriad tribes;
And this great cloud-filled arch which covers all.
Are they, you, me, and all our teeming world
Of ships, and men, and fish, and birds, and towns,
A phantom place, in which dim shadows grope,
And meet, or rather make pretence to meet;
And love, and kiss, and mate, and rear their kind,
And yet are nothing, nothing all the time,
But the mere froth and fury of a dream—
A baseless dream, a sordid dream to boot;
Ugly, and mean, confused, and vain, and dull;
In which a crowd of little air-built mimes,
Hate, clutch, and try to wound their fellow mimes,
And wound themselves instead; and utter cries,
And stretch out phantom arms to phantom skies,
And all the while are nothing? Feverish dreams,
The nerve-built puppets of an aguish night,
A goblin brood, mist-born, and fever-hatched,
Within the void of some prodigious brain?
Or are you both right? And is all a dream?
This ridge on which we sit; those stones about us;
Yon poor rude chapel, battered by the storms;
Restless Atlantic, and his myriad tribes;
And this great cloud-filled arch which covers all.
Are they, you, me, and all our teeming world
63
A phantom place, in which dim shadows grope,
And meet, or rather make pretence to meet;
And love, and kiss, and mate, and rear their kind,
And yet are nothing, nothing all the time,
But the mere froth and fury of a dream—
A baseless dream, a sordid dream to boot;
Ugly, and mean, confused, and vain, and dull;
In which a crowd of little air-built mimes,
Hate, clutch, and try to wound their fellow mimes,
And wound themselves instead; and utter cries,
And stretch out phantom arms to phantom skies,
And all the while are nothing? Feverish dreams,
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A goblin brood, mist-born, and fever-hatched,
Within the void of some prodigious brain?
No, no, good comrade mine, by all we love;
By all we are, have been, or hope to be,
Let us fling off such juggling with our wits.
Else see, our feet are here upon the brink,
Our ears are filled with this bewildering surge;
If all are phantoms, then this so-called height,
This twice or thrice a hundred feet of cliff,
Is but one phantom more, and should we cross it
We do but act as some despairing sleeper,
Who, sick of dreams, turns wearily in bed.
Give me your hand, old friend, and hold you mine
Firmly in yours. The path at worst is short,
We will not spoil such shortness, by your leave,
With any such mere pitfalls for our brains,
Such half-sprung air-traps. As the wise man said,
Let us at least pretend that you and I
Exist; have substance. Further, that the rest,
These goodly kindly mortals whom we know,
Are in like case. They may be; and if so,
Then are their struggles real. Their pains
Seem true enough, God knows! Real their souls,
Real the God who saves them? He at least
Must know if He be fact or not, or if
Ought be at all. Then when the viewless brink
Is once more reached, by no unfair short-cut,
We may confront that Be or Not to be,
That vast Perhaps, that undeciphered If,
With open eyes, and undiscouraged hearts.
Nay with, who knows? some shadow of that glee,
Fearful, yet not all fearful, with which they,
The first gay bold explorers of our race,
Ignorant mariners, but steadfast souls,
Strode to the beach, unloosed some crazy planks,
And with a brief committal of themselves
To Him who, named or unnamed, still they trusted,
Sailed their frail crafts to find an unknown sea.
By all we are, have been, or hope to be,
Let us fling off such juggling with our wits.
Else see, our feet are here upon the brink,
Our ears are filled with this bewildering surge;
If all are phantoms, then this so-called height,
This twice or thrice a hundred feet of cliff,
Is but one phantom more, and should we cross it
We do but act as some despairing sleeper,
Who, sick of dreams, turns wearily in bed.
65
Firmly in yours. The path at worst is short,
We will not spoil such shortness, by your leave,
With any such mere pitfalls for our brains,
Such half-sprung air-traps. As the wise man said,
Let us at least pretend that you and I
Exist; have substance. Further, that the rest,
These goodly kindly mortals whom we know,
Are in like case. They may be; and if so,
Then are their struggles real. Their pains
Seem true enough, God knows! Real their souls,
Real the God who saves them? He at least
Must know if He be fact or not, or if
Ought be at all. Then when the viewless brink
66
We may confront that Be or Not to be,
That vast Perhaps, that undeciphered If,
With open eyes, and undiscouraged hearts.
Nay with, who knows? some shadow of that glee,
Fearful, yet not all fearful, with which they,
The first gay bold explorers of our race,
Ignorant mariners, but steadfast souls,
Strode to the beach, unloosed some crazy planks,
And with a brief committal of themselves
To Him who, named or unnamed, still they trusted,
Sailed their frail crafts to find an unknown sea.
67
FROM THE RATH
I heard the sound by snatches through the night.
The wind had risen, and the sea in wrath
Shook the small island to its buttresses.
It was a sound of weeping, strangely clear,
Or more than weeping; one which tore the heart,
And filled the brain, and seemed to still the blood.
A sound of sobs, mingled with half-formed words;
The maddened, feeble, helpless, hopeless cry
Of some tormented creature. And it came
From where, perched on the ridge above my head,
The rath rose greyly. Nothing living stirred,
Our little sea-girt world was lapped in sleep,
Yet still that cry rose, rose, and rang again,
Lost in the storm, then rising high and shrill,
Thin as some gnat's hum on a summer's noon;
So clear, so loud, so torturingly shrill,
That Pity's self would fain have struck it dumb.
The wind had risen, and the sea in wrath
Shook the small island to its buttresses.
It was a sound of weeping, strangely clear,
Or more than weeping; one which tore the heart,
And filled the brain, and seemed to still the blood.
A sound of sobs, mingled with half-formed words;
The maddened, feeble, helpless, hopeless cry
68
From where, perched on the ridge above my head,
The rath rose greyly. Nothing living stirred,
Our little sea-girt world was lapped in sleep,
Yet still that cry rose, rose, and rang again,
Lost in the storm, then rising high and shrill,
Thin as some gnat's hum on a summer's noon;
So clear, so loud, so torturingly shrill,
That Pity's self would fain have struck it dumb.
I slept, and, dreaming, lost it. Suddenly
It rose again, and shriller than before,
Shrill with the dreadful shrillness of despair.
It seemed the cry of one that knows its doom,
Yet knows not all; or, shudderingly, fears
Worse than it knows. A horror of the thing
Grew on me as I listened. Next came dawn,
And with the earliest day I climbed the slope,
Passing between tall sentinel rows of stones,
Jaggèd and splintered like some ogre's sword,
And stood within the precincts of the rath.
It rose again, and shriller than before,
Shrill with the dreadful shrillness of despair.
It seemed the cry of one that knows its doom,
Yet knows not all; or, shudderingly, fears
69
Grew on me as I listened. Next came dawn,
And with the earliest day I climbed the slope,
Passing between tall sentinel rows of stones,
Jaggèd and splintered like some ogre's sword,
And stood within the precincts of the rath.
Even in the eye of day it seemed to hold
Some ghostly adumbration from the night,
Some lurking legacy from dead pagan days,
Bloody, and secret, dark, unnameable,
Branding the spot and its unhallowed stones
As with a martyr's curse. The morning smiled;
Its new-born light spread clean along the ridge,
Still wet with rain, or, slipping down the edge,
Awoke an opal hid at every turn.
And tiny new-born trefoils caught the light
On soft red claws, and tender, green-fringed spears;
And busy emmets drove a bustling trade
About the rude base of an old grey cross,
And the sea smiled its own enchanting smile.
Some ghostly adumbration from the night,
Some lurking legacy from dead pagan days,
Bloody, and secret, dark, unnameable,
Branding the spot and its unhallowed stones
As with a martyr's curse. The morning smiled;
Its new-born light spread clean along the ridge,
70
Awoke an opal hid at every turn.
And tiny new-born trefoils caught the light
On soft red claws, and tender, green-fringed spears;
And busy emmets drove a bustling trade
About the rude base of an old grey cross,
And the sea smiled its own enchanting smile.
Only for me the night still marred the day;
Only for me some desecrating touch
Lay on the scene. Some sanguinary trail,
Not to be healed by flower, or sun, or sea.
No, nor by cross. Rather it seemed to mock
The Pity which that cross stood surety for.
What? eighteen centuries? a speck! a span!
One streak of light on Time's dark-pillared dome;
One patch of verdure in a desert's glare;
One tear dropped on the heights of Golgotha.
Only for me some desecrating touch
Lay on the scene. Some sanguinary trail,
Not to be healed by flower, or sun, or sea.
No, nor by cross. Rather it seemed to mock
71
What? eighteen centuries? a speck! a span!
One streak of light on Time's dark-pillared dome;
One patch of verdure in a desert's glare;
One tear dropped on the heights of Golgotha.
Oh weary human drove, slayers and slain,
What ghostly scroll records your unknown deeds?
What unseen track, thorny, and smeared with blood,
Has felt the tread of your unnumbered feet?
Oh wan-eyed Pity, and ye pitiless Fates,
Thin-lipped, cold-visaged, fed on sighs and groans,
What piteous ghosts attend your shadowy halls,
Or moan in troops beneath your leafless woods?
What full-fed rivers, flushed with countless tears,
Go rolling greyly down your brine-filled coasts?
What gulfs, what tides of mortal agony,
Sleep in the Past, that huge unplumbèd sea?
What ghostly scroll records your unknown deeds?
What unseen track, thorny, and smeared with blood,
Has felt the tread of your unnumbered feet?
Oh wan-eyed Pity, and ye pitiless Fates,
Thin-lipped, cold-visaged, fed on sighs and groans,
72
Or moan in troops beneath your leafless woods?
What full-fed rivers, flushed with countless tears,
Go rolling greyly down your brine-filled coasts?
What gulfs, what tides of mortal agony,
Sleep in the Past, that huge unplumbèd sea?
| With the Wild Geese | |