Ghost-bereft :: :: University of Virginia Library

Overlookin' the river our house was, and right at the bawn's end you'd step
On the little ould hand-bridge across it, where it whips round the turn wid a lep
Through the tumble of stones; and then on by the bit of steep footpath you'd land
At the water's edge down in the wood, and it runnin' so swift you must stand
And be watchin' awhile, to try listen what it said to itself as it went;
For 'twas strange how you'd seem to hear somethin', and ever just miss what it meant,
And not ever be tired of the tryin'. So there I'd me long flat-topped stone,
Wid a tall one behind it stood shaggy in green fleeces of moss overgrown,
Like a settle folk draw to the front of the hearth on a cold winter's night;

But instead of a fire at me feet I'd the strame racin' by dark and bright,
And forenent me across it the height of the bank, wid the tree-stems and roots
Loopin' out 'twixt them wide wall-faced slabs, where the ivy trailed fine little shoots,
And one big juttin' rock that the strame ran full tilt agin slashin' by;
People said in the corner beneath 'twould be deep as the bank rose high.
Quare and quiet, sure, and black-lookin' 'twas, and white circles sailed round on it slow,
Caught in out of the lathers of froth that come down wid the wild river's flow;
And I loved to be watchin' that peltin' along, twistin' clear heavy strands
In and out through the rocks where 'twas weavin' and seethin' in streamers and bands.

There was some boulders up-standin' tall; 'twould be only the maddest of floods
E'er set foot on their heads; more there was kep' ducked low under smooth-foldin' hoods
Where the water just drowned them; and off of a ledge in a mane like of foam
'Twould drop now and agin white and straight like as if it was straked wid a comb.
But the sound of it rested me heart, for it ever swep' on wid its rush,
That seemed hurryin' to find all the trouble of the world and be biddin' it hush;
Deep and hollow, and full up of different voices, all dronin' in one;
If you set them to sayin' the thought you were thinkin', they'd never be done.
So I'd hear them far up on the strame, and fast by where the waters fall:

What matter? sez they, sure what matter? Ah sure what should it matter at all?
Over and over: What matter? What matter? Ah sure what matter? they'd keep;
What matter? I'd listen, what matter at all? till me thoughts 'ud be half asleep.
Then there'd somethin' cry: ‘Oonah’; you'd say a lost chicken 'twas pipin' its best,
But the same would be Norah come trottin' to find me away from the rest,
Climbin' over the boulders as big as herself was wid foot and wid hand,
By the strame's edge. And round me stone's corner I'd peep, and I'd see where she'd stand
Wid her hair ruffled out in the sun, short and fine, like the yellowy fluff
On wee chickens—they'll niver be callin' ‘Red-Nob’ to her, that's sure enough—

And the minyit she spied me: ‘I've got her,’ sez she, and runs headlong as quick
As the chickens themselves in delight when you've thrown them a handful to pick.
So she'd roost there beside me, and both of us hear how 'twould whisper and call:
What matter? What matter? Sure what should it matter? Ah sure what matter at all?