 | From the Hills of Dream |  |
FROM THE HILLS OF DREAM
Cathair-Sith.
I watch the waves that wash between
The Rainbow-Pillars none hath seen.
It spreads its cloud-white wings to fly;
Its time hath come to it to die.
It spreads its green-gloom wings, and shines
Gold-green against the Rainbow-Signs.
Green, thus, with sacred pine-tree shade;
White with cloud feathers overlaid.
The white across the surface run:
This is the rune that I have won.
Out of the mystery of the sea;
When dreaming, where, far-off, may be
The Rainbow-Pillars of Caershee.
In the Shadow.
As deep and dark as though beneath the shadow of her hair:
For in her hair a spirit dwells that no white spirit is,
And hell is in the hopeless heaven of that lost spirit's kiss.
She takes their souls and blows them forth as idle drifted sand:
And one falls back upon her breast that is his quiet home,
And one goes out into the night and is as wind-blown foam.
And looks into the outer dark and calleth soft and fair:
And then the lost soul that afar within the dark doth roam
Comes laughing, laughing, laughing, and crying, Home! Home!
And is there any peace for him whose doom is endless flight?
O wild sad bird, O wind-spent bird, O bird upon the wave
There is no home for thee, wild bird, but in the cold sea-grave!
The Green Lady.
Hast seen the Green Lady?
The merles are singing,
The ferns are springing,
The little leaves whisper from dusk to dawn—
Green Lady! Green Lady!
The little leaves whisper from dusk to dawn—
Wild fawn, wild fawn!
Hast seen the Green Lady?
The bird in the nest,
And the child at the breast,
They open wide eyes as she comes down the dawn—
The bonnie Green Lady,
Bird and child make a whisper of music at dawn,
Wild fawn, wild fawn!
Dost thou flee the Green Lady?
Her wild flowers will race thee,
Her sunbeams will chase thee,
Her laughter is ringing aloud in the dawn—
O the Green Lady
With yellow flowers strewing the ways of the dawn,
Wild fawn, wild fawn!
A Milking Song.
(Sweet St Bride.)
Yellow, yellow hair:
Paul said, and Peter said,
And all the saints alive or dead
Vowed she had the sweetest head,
Bonnie, sweet St Bride of the
Yellow, yellow hair.
White as thee:
Thy face is white, thy neck is white,
Thy hands are white, thy feet are white,
For thy sweet soul is shining bright—
O dear to me,
O dear to see
St Bridget white!
Soft, and round:
Thy breasts are sweet,
Soft, round and sweet,
So may my butter be:
So may my butter be, O
Bridget sweet!
Safe, St Bride:
May my kye come home at even,
None be fallin', none be leavin',
Dusky even, breath-sweet even,
St Bride, thou
Keepest tryst with God in heav'n,
Seest the angels bow
And souls be shriven—
Here, as there, 'tis breath-sweet even
Far and wide—
Singeth thy little maid
Safe in thy shade
Bridget, Bride!
A Milking Song.
(Aillsha-bàn.)
Aillsha-bàn, Aillsha-bàn,Give way to the milking!
The Holy St Bridget
Is milking, milking
This self-same even
The white kye in heaven—
Ay, sure, my eyes scan
The green place she is in,
Aillsha-bàn, Aillsha-bàn:
And her hand is so soft
And her crooning is sweet
As my milking is soft
Upon thee, Aillsha-bàn—
As my crooning is sweet
Upon thee, Aillsha-bàn,
Aillsha-bàn—
So soft is my hand and
My crooning so sweet,
Aillsha-bàn!
St Bride's Warning.
Dearie, dearie, dearie, my wee white babe that 's weary,
Weary, weary, weary, with this my womb sae weary,
And Bride's sweet song ye hear it too, and stir and sigh, my dearie!
Wee hands that give me pain and woe:
Pain and woe, but be it so,
'Tis his dear self that now doth grow,
Lennavan-mo, lennavan-mo,
'Tis his dear self one day you 'll know,
Lennavan-mo, lennavan-mo!
My baby comes, and I must go,
Lennavan-mo, lennavan-mo!
Arone!...Arò!
Arone!...Arò!
The Rainbow Bird.
Singeth a sweet song:
None can do it wrong
Sweet breath of sunshine!
With the rainbow-wings,
That singeth of secret things
The heart only hath heard?
The sun shines, and far,
In the blue sky a star
Leapeth white as snow.
And the stars glisten
In the dark, I listen,
And the bird of moonshine
Sings, where erst
The sun-song burst
From the bird of sunshine.
A Summer Air.
And waving wind,
And waving seas,
And waving mind—
Where, far and wide,
Am I to roam
To find my bride,
To reach my home?
Ah, whither fled?
She hath not died,
Nor am I dead:
But somehow, somewhere,
A song she heard,
And she flashed thro' the air
A sunfire bird.
Where the rainbows are;
Sweet, sweet her kiss
Awaits afar:
My goal is where
The sea-waves meet
The Sands of Youth
Stirred by her feet.
O waving grass,
My heart grieves
That it may not pass.
Summer is long,”—
I know not, Sweet,
'Tis an empty Song.
Across what foam,
On what strange tide,
Shall I be come?
Meet me, O Bride,
Where, lost, I roam:
Leap to my side
And lead me home!
The Hollow Land.
On the silent wings of Sleep:
And the darkness was about me
As the furtive things that creep
From the shadow of the forest
Round the Shadow still more deep.
And was borne beyond the Gate,
Past the Portals of two Shadows
Which are the self-same Fate,—
Sleep, clad in dusk, and dreaming,
Death, clad in night, her Mate.
Where unborn things agleam
Shine wanly athwart the gloaming
Beside each undreamed dream,
Till the Hollow Land was entered
By a silent stream.
It was that wended there,
Till lost in the immensity
Of that unwinnowed air:
Yet onward, and as for ever,
My soul was borne there.
O soul, that thing which thou saw,
What memory hast thou of either
Though thrilling still with the awe—
Not more than of harvest lingers
In wind-whirled straw!
That clothes thee round about,
Thou knowest thou viewed vast armies
In fierce bewildered rout,
And, 'mid the seething clamour,
Heard, as a blast, thy shout!
Or led'st thou a failing host:
Or were thy banners flying
Along a dismal coast:
Wert thou crown'd with life, O spirit,
Or crown'd with death, poor ghost?
The Sorrow of Delight.
And life be filled with light,
The Sorrow of ancient sorrows
Shall be the sorrow of Night:
But then the Sorrow of Sorrows
Shall be the Sorrow of Delight.
For both are sprung from clay:
But the Joy that is one with Sorrow,
Treads an immortal way:
Each hath in fee To-morrow,
And their soul is Yesterday.
Is the joy that is not dead:
For the joy that is clothed with the rainbow
Shall with the bow be sped:
Where the Sun spends his fires is she,
And where the Stars are led.
The Stone of Sorrow.
The sea, muttering, moans his primeval pain.
The brooding mists upon the brooding hills are lain;
The banners of the wild wandering mountain-winds are furled:
Wearily, wearily, dawns the morning o'er the world.
Beautiful spirit, whither hast thou fled?
They tell me thou art here no more, that thou art dead:
That shall not be till God afar the sun and stars hath whirled,
And saith, So sets the last wild dawn of any world.
FOAM OF THE PAST
The Moon-Song of Cathal.
Put thy honey-sheen upon me who am close-caverned with Death:
Sure it is little I see now who have seen too much and too little:
O moon, thy breast is softer and whiter than hers who burneth the day.
And waken him, waken him, wake!
And put thy soft shining on the breast of the woman my mother,
So that she stir in her sleep and say to the viking beside her,
“Take up thy sword, and let it lap blood, for it thirsts with long thirst.”
Tell her that Cathal loves her, and that memory is sweeter than life.
I list her heart beating here in the dark and the silence,
And it is not lonely I am, because of that, and remembrance.
So that he fall dead, inglorious, slain from within, as a greybeard;
And light a fire in the brain of Molios, so that he shall go moonstruck,
And men will jeer at him, and he will die at the last, idly laughing!
Neis the helot out of Iondu, that is in Iona, bondman to Colum,—
Tell him I hail thee as Bandia, as god-queen and mighty,
And that he had the wisdom and I was a fool with trickling ears of moss.
May he have the moonsong in his brain, and in his heart the moonfire:
Flame take him to heart of flame, and may he wane as wax at the furnace,
And his soul drown in tears, and his body be a nothingness upon the sands!
The Sun-Chant of Cathal.
Be a flame upon the monks that are praying in their cells in Iona!
Be a fire in the veins of Colum, and the hell that he preacheth be his,
And be a torch to the men of Lochlin that they discover the isle and consume it!
All else is a seeming, a dream, a madness, a tide ever ebbing.
Glory to thee, O Grian, lord of life, first of the gods, Allfather,
Swords and spears are thy beams, thy breath a fire that consumeth!
Upon one and all save Ardanna, who gave me her bosom,
Upon one and all send death, the curse of a death slow and swordless,
From Molios of the Cave to Mûrta and Diarmid my doomsmen!
War-Chant of the Islesmen.
O'tis a good song the sea makes when blood is on the wave,And a good song the wave makes when its crest o'foam is red!
For the rovers out of Lochlin the sea is a good grave,
And the bards will sing to-night to the sea-moan of the dead!
Yo-ho—a-h'eily—a-yo, eily, ayah, a yo!
Sword and Spear and Battle-Axe sing the Song of Woe:
Ayah, eily, a yo!
Eily, ayah, a yo!
The Laughter of the Sword.
And a good thing it is to hear it bubbling deep.
And when we hear the laughter of the Sword,
Oh, the corbies croak, and the old wail, and the women weep!
Washing the red out of the sins of all this slaying horde;
And trampling the bones of them into white powdery sands,
And laughing low at the thirst of her thirsty sword—
The Washer of the Ford!
The Death Shadow.
Betwixt the man of the red hair and him of the black beard,
Rise now, and out of thy cold white eyes take out the fear,
And let Fergus mac Art mhic Fheargus see his weird!
The shadow of you crawling across the dead.
Soon you will twine your arm around his shaking knee,
And be whispering your silence into his listless head.
The Ford of Death.
The souls of the dead,
O Torcall, my father,
My soul is led!
I was thrown, I was sown:
Out of thy seed
I am sprung, I am blown!
For Hildyr and me,
By the hill-moss grey
Or the grey sea?
And a whirling Sword—
And a Woman washing
By a Ford!
The Washer of Souls.
Nor do I see aught but the flowing of a river.
And I see shadows on the flow that are ever fleeing,
And I see a Woman washing shrouds for ever and ever.
Here am I washing away the sins of the shriven,
O Torcall of Lochlin, throw off the red sins that ye cherish
And I will be giving you the washen shroud that they wear in Heaven.”
That you have not for me any whirling of the Sword:
I have lost my gods, O woman, so what will the name be
Of thee and thy gods, O woman that art Washer of the Ford?
And Christ is the Son of God, and of Mary the Mother of Heaven.
And this river is the river of death, and the shadows
Are the fleeing souls that are lost if they be not shriven.”
LYRIC RUNES
“My wisdom became pregnant on lonely mountains; upon rugged stones she bore her young.
Now she runneth strangely through the hard desert and seeketh, and ever seeketh for soft grass, mine own old wisdom.”
Nietzsche.The Faring of the Tide.
Be the Three-in-one with us day and night,
On the crested wave, when waves run high!”
Where Tir-na'n-Òg, the Land of Youth
Is, the Land of Youth everlasting,
Send the great tide that carries the sea-weed
And brings the birds, out of the North:
And bid it wind as a snake through the bracken,
As a great snake through the heather of the sea,
The fair blooming heather of the sunlit sea.
And may it bring the fish to our nets,
And the great fish to our lines:
And may it sweep away the sea-hounds
That devour the herring:
And may it drown the heavy pollack
That respect not our nets
But fall into and tear them and ruin them wholly.
And may I, or any that is of my blood,
Behold not the Wave-Haunter who comes in with the Tide;
Or the Maighdeann-màra who broods in the shallows,
Where the sea-caves are, in the ebb.
And fair may my fishing be, and the fishing of those near to me,
And good may this Tide be, and good may it bring:
And may there be no calling in the Flow, this Srùth-màra,
And may there be no burden in the ebb! ochone!
The Rune of the Black Seal.
In the name of the Father,
And of the Son,
And of the Holy Ghost,
O Seal of the deep sea, O black Seal!
I, Phadric MacAlastair MhicCrae,
Who dwells in a house on the Island
That you look on night and day from Soa!
For I put rosad upon thee,
And upon the woman-seal that won thee,
And the women-seal that are thine,
And the young that thou hast;
Ay, upon thee and all thy kin
I put rosad, O Ron dubh, O Ron-à-mhàra!
Or to any fishing or snaring that is of me;
Or to any sailing by storm or dusk,
Or when the moonshine fills the blind eyes of the dead,
No harm to me or mine
From thee or thine!
The Rune of Mànus MacCodrum.
It is I, Mànus MacCodrum,I am telling you that, you, Anndra of my blood,
And you, Neil my grandfather, and you, and you, and you!
Ay, ay, Mànus my name is, Mànus MacMànus!
It is I myself, and no other,
Your brother, O Seals of the Sea!
Give me blood of the red fish,
And a bite of the flying sgadan:
The green wave on my belly,
And the foam in my eyes!
I am your bull-brother, O Bulls of the Sea,
Bull-better than any of you, snarling bulls!
Come to me, mate, seal of the soft furry womb,
White am I still, though red shall I be,
Red with the streaming red blood if any dispute me!
Aoh, aoh, aoh, arò, ho-rò!
A man was I, a seal am I,
My fangs churn the yellow foam from my lips:
Give way to me, give way to me, Seals of the Sea;
Give way, for I am fëy of the sea
And the sea-maiden I see there,
And my name, true, is Mànus MacCodrum,
The bull-seal that was a man, Arà! Arà!
The Spell of the Sight.
By that which dwells within thee,By the lamps that shine upon me,
By the white light I see litten
From the brain now sleeping stilly,
By the silence in the hollows,
By the wind that slow subsideth,
By the life-tide slowly ebbing,
By the death-tide slowly rising,
By the slowly waning warmth,
By the chill that slowly groweth,
By the dusk that slowly creepeth,
By the darkness near thee,
By the darkness round thee,
By the darkness o'er thee—
O'er thee, round thee, on thee—
By the one that standeth
At thy side and waiteth
Dumb and deaf and blindly,
By the one that moveth,
Bendeth, riseth, watcheth,
By the dim Grave-Spell upon thee,
By the Silence thou hast wedded....
May the way thy feet are treading,
May the tangled lines now crookèd,
Clear as moonlight lie before me!
Oh! oh! ohrone, ochrone! green the branches bonnie:
Oh! oh! ohrone, ochrone! red the blood-drop berries:
Achrone, arone, arone, arone, I see the green-clad Lady,
She walks the road that's wet with tears, with rustling sorrows shady...
Oh! oh! mo ghraidh,
Mo ghraidh, mo ghraidh!
THE LOVE SONGS OF IAN MÒR
Alona.
Alona!
Even as the sun in a green place,
The light that is upon thy face!
When thou art gone there is dusk on my ways,
Alona!
Alona,
The white warm clay that hath for name,
Alona—and for word of fame,
Eilidh—and is for me a Flame
To burn against the Eternal Day,
Alona!
Alona,
And the wide sea, and the blue loch, and the stream:
On thy brow, Daughter of the Sun, is agleam
The mystery of Dream,—
Alona!
Alona,
O, heart of my heart, are in me!
Thy fire burns, thy flame killeth, thy sea
Of light blazeth continually—
Is there no rest in joy, no rest, no rest for me
Whom rapture slayeth utterly,
Alona, Alona!
Eilidh.
Come to my life that is already yours, and at one with you:Come to my blood that leaps because of you,
Come to my heart that holds you, Eilidh,
Come to my heart that holds you as the green earth clasps and holds the sunlight,
Come to me! Come to me, Eilidh!
Silk o' the Kine.
There are two men loving thee and two who are calling thee wife:
Ay, sure, thy womb knows me, and the child thou bearest is mine.
Nought else in the world, no, no other man for thee, no woman for me!
Eilidh, my Fawn.
I saw a stirring in the fern and out there leapt a fawn:
And O my heart was up at that and like the wind it blew
Till its shadow hovered o'er the fawn as 'mid the fern it flew.
And Eilidh! Eilidh! Eilidh! did the echoing corries fill:
My hunting heart was glad indeed, at the lighting of the dawn,
For O it was the hunting then of my bonnie bonnie Fawn!
Love in Absence.
And is thy heart as tremulous as of yore,
And do thine eyes mirror the wonderfulness,
And do thy lips retain their magic lore?”
What, Sweet, can these things be, ev'n in thy thought,
And I so briefly gone, so swiftly come?
Nay, if the pulse of life its beat forgot
This speaking heart would not thereby be dumb.
That dost consume heart, brain, nerves, body, soul,
That even my immortal birthright I would sell
Were Heaven to choose, or Thee, as my one goal.
Sweet love fulfilled, they say, the common lot!
He, who speaks thus, of real love knoweth not!
The Closing Doors.
In dreams I am hearing the whisper, the sound of your coming feet:
The sound of your coming feet that like the sea-hoofs beat
A music by day and night, Eilidh, on the sands of my heart, my sweet!
Is that the deep sea-heart I hear with the dying sob at its core?
Each dim lost wave that lapses is like a closing door:
'Tis closing doors they hear at last who soon shall hear no more,
Who soon shall hear no more.
It is pain I am having ever, Eilidh, a pain that will not be:
Come home, come home, for closing doors are as the waves o'the sea,
Once closed they are closed for ever, Eilidh, lost, lost, for thee and me,
Lost, lost, for thee and me.
Home.
Breaking, breaking:
O for the home that I canna, canna win!
The weary aching,
The weary, weary aching
To be in the home that I canna, canna win!
The long, long home sickness!
'Tis slow, slow death for me who longs for home, for home!
And a heart is breaking,
I know a heart that's breaking,
All to be at home at last, to be at home, at home,
O Eilidh, Eilidh,
Home, Home, Home!
FROM THE HEART OF A WOMAN
For life and joy...and for love, sweet love.”
Walt Whitman.
An Inscription.
Be with you thro' the Stress and Strife—
Be with you thro' the Shadow and Shine,
The immortal Ichor, the immortal Wine.
It gives the laughter to the Strife,
Drink deep, and thro' the Shadow and Shine
Rejoice in the Green Fire of Life.
Pulse of my Heart.
That look into mine?
Is this smile, this laugh,
Thine?
O pulse of my heart,
This is our child, our child—
And...we apart!
Wrought in my womb,
Never to feel thy kiss!—
Ah, bitter doom!
We meet again!
Here do we part, we twain:
I to my death-sweet pain,
Thou to thy span of joy.
His eyes I see.
Sure, death is Paradise
If so my soul can be,
Ian, with thee!
My Birdeen.
Sweet bird of my heart—
Tell me, O tell me,
How shall we part?
Who is father to thee:
O birdeen, his eyes
In these blue eyes I see.
Of our joy that was slain:
My birdeen, my boy,
My passion, my pain.
THE SILENCE OF AMOR
“Are they gone, these twain, who loved with deathless love? Or is this a dream that I have dreamed?
“Afar in an island-sanctuary that I shall not see again, where the wind chants the blind oblivious rune of Time, I have heard the grasses whisper: Time never was, Time is not.”
“Ula and Urla.”The Shadowy Woodlands.
Above the shadowy woodlands I hear the voice of the cuckooAbove the shadowy woodlands I hear the voice of the cuckoo, sailing like a silver skiff upon the moonflood.
I hear the far-off plaint of the cuckoo sink deep through the moonshine above the shadowy woodlands. At last, in the dense shadow of the wood, the moonlight sleeps.
At the Rising of the Moon.
At the rising of the moonAt the rising of the moon I heard the falling echo of a song, down by the linn where the wild-brier hangs over the swirling foam. Ah swirling foam, ah poignant breath of the wild brier, now that I hear no haunting-sweet echo of a falling song at the rising of the moon.
Nocturne.
By dim, mauve and dream-white bushes of lilacBy dim, mauve and dream-white bushes of lilac I pass to the cypress alley, and to the mere which lies breathless in the moonshine. A fish leaps, a momentary flame of fire. Then all is still again on the moonlit mere, where, breathless, it lies beyond the cypress alley. In the vague moonshine of the cypress alley I pass again, a silent shadow, by the dim, mauve and dream-white bushes of lilac.
Lances of Gold.
The afternoon has drowsed through the sun-flood.The afternoon has drowsed through the sun-flood. The green leaves have grown golden, saturated with light. And now, at the sudden whirling of the lances of gold, a cloud of wild-doves arises from the pines, wheels against the sunblaze, and flashes out of sight, flames of purple and rose, of foam-white and pink. I know the green hidden nests of the wild doves, when ye come again, O whirling lances of gold!
The Nightjar.
Low upon a pine-branch a nightjar leansLow upon a pine-branch a nightjar leans and sings his churring song. He sings his churring song to his mate, who, poised upon a juniper hard by, listens with quivering wings.
The whirring of the nightjar fills the dusk, heavy with the fragrance of new-mown hay. There is neither star nor moon in the dim, flowing darkness, only the red and yellow wayfaring flames where the glow-worms are. Like a wandering wave, in the dewy dark, the churring note of the nightjar rises and falls against the juniper bush hard by.
The Twilit Waters.
Upon the dim seas in the twilightUpon the dim seas in the twilight I hear the tide forging slowly through the still waters. There is not a sound else: neither the scream of a sea-mew, nor the harsh cry of the heron, nor the idle song of the wind: only the steadfast forging of the tide through the still waters of the twilit seas. O steadfast onward tide, O gloaming-hidden palpitating seas!
Evoë!
Oceanward, the sea-horses sweep magnificentlyOceanward, the sea-horses sweep magnificently, champing and whirling white foam about their green flanks, and tossing on high their manes of sunlit rainbow-gold, dazzling white and multitudinous far as sight can reach.
O champing horses of my soul, toss, toss on high your sunlit manes, your manes of rainbow-gold, dazzling white and multitudinous: for I too rejoice, rejoice!
Grey and Rose.
I watched the greying of the dawnI watched the greying of the dawn suspiring into rose. Then a yellow ripple came out of the narrow corrie at the summit of the hill. The yellow ripple ran like the running tide through the flushing grey, and washed in among the sprays of a birch beside me and among the rowan-clusters of a mountain-ash. But at the falling of the sun the yellow ripple was an ebbing tide, and the sprays of the birch were as a perishing flame and the rowan-berries were red as drops of blood. Thereafter I watched the rose slow fading into the grey veils of dusk. O greying of my dawn suspiring into rose: O grey veils of dusk that obscure the tender flushing of my rose-lit dawn!
High Noon.
To-day, as I walked at high noonTo-day, as I walked at high noon, listening to the larks filling the April blue with a spray of delicate song, I saw a shadow pass me, where no one was, and where nothing moved, above me or around. It was not my shadow that passed me, nor the shadow of one for whom I longed. That other shadow came not.
I have heard that there is a god clothed in shadow who goes to and fro among the human kind, putting silence between hearts with his waving hands, and breathing a chill out of his cold breath, and leaving a gulf as of deep waters flowing between them because of the passing of his feet.
Thus, thus it was that that other shadow for which I longed came not. Yet, in the April blue I heard the wild aerial chimes of song, and watched the golden fulfilment of the day under the high illimitable arch of noon.
The White Merle.
Long, long ago, a white merle flew out of Eden.Long, long ago, a white merle flew out of Eden. Its song has been in the world ever since, but few there are who have seen the flash of its white wings through the green-gloom of the living wood—the sun-splashed, rain-drenched, mist-girt, storm-beat wood of human life.
But to-day, as I came through the wood, under an arch of tempest, and led by lightnings, I passed into a green sun-splashed place. There, there, I heard the singing of a rapt song of joy! there, ah there I saw the flash of white wings!
The Immortals.
I saw the Weaver of DreamI saw the Weaver of Dream, an immortal shape of star-eyed Silence; and the Weaver of Death, a lovely Dusk with a heart of hidden flame: and each wove with the shuttles of Beauty and Wonder and Mystery.
I knew not which was the more fair: for Death seemed to me as Love, and in the eyes of Dream I saw Joy. Oh, come, come to me, Weaver of Dream! Come, come unto me, O Lovely Dusk, thou that hast the heart of hidden flame!
The Weaver of Hope.
Again I saw a beautiful lordly one.Again I saw a beautiful lordly one. He too lifted the three shuttles of Beauty and Wonder and Mystery, and wove a mist of rainbows. Rainbow after rainbow he wrought out of the mist of glory that he made, and sent each forth to drift across the desert of the human soul, and o'er every haunted valley of defeated dreams.
O drifting rainbows of Hope, I know a pale place, a haunted valley of defeated dreams.
The Golden Tides.
The moon lay low above the seaThe moon lay low above the sea, and all the flowing gold and flashing silver of the rippling running water seemed to be a flood going that way and falling into the shining hollow of the moon. O, that the tides of my heart, for ever flowing one way, might fall to rest in the hollow of a golden moon.
Nocturne.
A pale golden flame illumesA pale golden flame illumes the suspended billows of the forest. Star after star emerges, where the moongold laps the velvet-soft shores of dusk. Slowly the yellowing flame arises like smoke among the dark-blue depths. The white rays of the stars wander over the moveless, over the shadowless and breathless green lawns of the tree-tops. O would that I were a star lost deep within the paling yellow flame that illumes the suspended billows of the forest.
The Reed Player.
I saw one that put a hollow reed to his lipsI saw one put a hollow reed to his lips. It was a forlorn, sweet air that he played, an ancient forgotten strain learned of a shepherding woman upon the hills. The Song of Songs it was that he played: and the beating of hearts was heard, and I heard sighs, and a voice like a distant bird-song rose and fell.
“Play me a song of Death,” I said. Then he who had the hollow reed at his lips smiled, and he played again the Song of Songs.
Hy Bràsil.
I heard the voice of the wind among the pines.I heard the voice of the wind among the pines. It was as the tide coming over smooth sands. On the red pine-boles the sun flamed goldenly out of the west. In falling cadences the cuckoos called across the tides of light.
In dreams, now, I hear the cuckoos calling across a dim sea of light, there where a sun that never rose nor set flames goldenly upon ancient trees, in whose midst the wind goes sighingly, with a sound as of the tide slipping swift over smooth sands. And I hear a solitary voice singing there, where I stand beside the gold-flamed pine-boles and look with hungry eyes against the light of a sun that never rose nor set.
The Wild Bees.
There was a man, seeking PeaceThere was a man, seeking Peace, who found a precious treasure in the heather, when the bells were sweet with honey-ooze. Did the wild bees know of it? Would that I could hear the soft hum of their gauzy wings.
Where blooms that heather, and what wind is it that moveth the bells that are sweet with the honey-ooze? Only the wild bees know of it; but I think they must be the bees of Magh-Mell, the bees that make a sweet sound in the drowsy ears of those who beneath the heather have indeed found rest by the dim waysides of Peace.
Whirled Stars.
The rain has ceased falling softlyThe rain has ceased falling softly through the dusk. A cool green wind flows through the deeps of air. The stars are as wind-whirled fruit blown upward from the tree-tops. Full-orbed, and with a pulse of flame, the moon leads a tide of quiet light over the brown shores of the world.
But here, here where I stand upon the brown shores of the world, in the shine of that quiet flame where, full-orbed, the moon uplifts the dark, I think only of the stars as wind-whirled fruit blown upward from the tree-tops. I think only of that wind that blew upon the tree-tops, where the whirling stars spun in a mazy dance, when, at last, the rain had ceased falling softly through the dusk. O wind-whirled stars, O secret falling rain!
Orchil.
I dreamed of OrchilI dreamed of Orchil, the dim goddess who is under the brown earth, in a vast cavern, where she weaves at two looms. With one hand she weaves life upward through the grass; with the other she weaves death downward through the mould: and the sound of the weaving is Eternity, and the name of it in the green world is Time. And, through all, Orchil weaves the weft of Eternal Beauty, that passeth not, though its soul is Change.
This is my comfort, O Beauty that art of Time, who am faint and hopeless in the strong sound of that other Weaving, where Orchil, the dim goddess, sits dreaming at her loom under the brown earth.
Fuit Ilium.
I see the lift of the darkI see the lift of the dark, the lovely advance of the lunar twilight, the miracle of the yellow bloom—golden here and here white as frost-fire—upon sea and land. I see, and yet see not. I hear the muffled voice of ocean and soft recurrent whisperings of the foam-white runnels at my feet: I hear, and yet hear not. But one sound, one voice, I hear: one gleam, one vision, I see: O irrevocable, ineffable Desire!
The Sea Shell.
In the heart of the shellIn the heart of the shell a wild-rose flush lies shut from wind or wave; lies close, and dreams to the unceasing lullaby that the sea-shell sings.
O would that I were that wild-rose flush, shut close from wind or wave: O would that I were that wild-rose flush to dream for ever to the unceasing song my sea-shell sings.
The White Procession.
One by one the stars come forthOne by one the stars come forth—solemn eyes watching for ever the white procession move onward orderly where there is neither height, nor depth, nor beginning, nor end.
In the vast stellar space the moonglow wanes until it grows cold, white, ineffably remote. Only upon our little dusky earth, upon our restless span of waters, the light descends in a tender warmth.
Deep gladness to me, though but the creature of an hour, that I am on this little moonlit dusky earth. Too cold, too white, too ineffably remote the moonglow in these vast wastes of Infinity where, one by one, the constellations roam—solemn witnesses watching for ever the white procession move onward orderly where there is neither height, nor depth, nor beginning, nor end.
The Two Eternities.
Time never was, Time is not.Time never was, Time is not. Thus I heard the grasses whisper, the green lips of the wind that chants the blind oblivious rune of Time, far in that island-sanctuary that I shall not see again.
Time never was, Time is not. O Time that was! O Time that is!
The Hills of Dream.
The tide of noon is upon the hills.The tide of noon is upon the hills. Amid leagues of purple heather, of pale amethyst ling, stand isled great yellow-lichened granite boulders, fringed with tawny bracken. In the vast dome of blue there is nought visible save a speck of white, a gannet that drifts above the invisible sea. And through the hot tide of noon goes a breath as of the heart of flame. Far off, far off, I know dim hills of dream, and there my heart suspends as a white bird longing for home: and there, oh there, is a heart of flame, and the breath of it is as the tide of noon upon these hills of dream.
Aerial Chimes.
Through the blue deeps of noon I heardThrough the blue deeps of noon I heard the cuckoo tolling his infrequent peals from skiey belfries built of sun and mist.
And now, through the blue deeps of night, from skiey belfries built of dusk and stars, I hear the tolling of infrequent peals.
| From the Hills of Dream | |