 | Irish Poems |  |
106
GORSE
To W. B. Yeats, who taught me
Many a year I loved the gorse on an English common,
Miles on miles of the golden cups and the nutty wine,
Cloth of gold for the tramping folk, poor men and women;
Still my heart said in complaint: It is not mine.
Miles on miles of the golden cups and the nutty wine,
Cloth of gold for the tramping folk, poor men and women;
Still my heart said in complaint: It is not mine.
Here's a golden wall each side the hill we're breasting;
Never sure was the English gorse as great as this!
Grapes of gold from a golden vine for the wild bees' questing;
A world of gold and a pearly cloud on a blue abyss.
Never sure was the English gorse as great as this!
Grapes of gold from a golden vine for the wild bees' questing;
A world of gold and a pearly cloud on a blue abyss.
There's a golden hill behind us now, gold on the azure,
The dearest hill like a little breast in gold above.
The lark springs from a golden bed, spilling his treasure
Down on the buttercup fields of light and his hidden love.
The dearest hill like a little breast in gold above.
The lark springs from a golden bed, spilling his treasure
Down on the buttercup fields of light and his hidden love.
Over the hill we bathe our feet in golden water,
A little stream the traveller fords, so clear and cold.
But is it May of the leafing—the High King's daughter
For all her green is under the wave of the flooding gold.
A little stream the traveller fords, so clear and cold.
107
For all her green is under the wave of the flooding gold.
Over the hill—the yellow hill, the Spears are showing,
The Silver Spears are turned to gold o'er the valley's haze.
There's a small gold shower on the mountain now and the river flowing
Flows in and out like a ribbon of gold through the Milky Ways.
The Silver Spears are turned to gold o'er the valley's haze.
There's a small gold shower on the mountain now and the river flowing
Flows in and out like a ribbon of gold through the Milky Ways.
The eager bees plunge to the thighs in a brimming chalice,
Their bag so full of the golden spoils they scarce can fly—
The mountain calls to the mountain now, over the valleys,
“Friend, we are Kings in the house of Kings, you and I.”
Their bag so full of the golden spoils they scarce can fly—
The mountain calls to the mountain now, over the valleys,
“Friend, we are Kings in the house of Kings, you and I.”
Here with a heart fed of delight as a bee with honey
I sit like a miser counting the gold, nor shall repine,
For the cuckoo's roaming the golden street, blithesome and bonny—
My heart says to my heart: Have peace: this beauty's thine.
I sit like a miser counting the gold, nor shall repine,
For the cuckoo's roaming the golden street, blithesome and bonny—
My heart says to my heart: Have peace: this beauty's thine.
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