 | Poems and Dramas by "Fiona MacLeod" (William Sharp) |  |
112
DEIRDRÊ IS DEAD ...
“Deirdrê the beautiful is dead ... is dead!”
(The House of Usna)
(The House of Usna)
The grey wind weeps, the grey wind weeps, the grey wind weeps:
Dust on her breast, dust on her eyes, the grey wind weeps!
Dust on her breast, dust on her eyes, the grey wind weeps!
Cold, cold it is under the brown sod, and cold under the grey grass;
Here only the wet wind and the flittermice and the plovers pass:
Here only the wet wind and the flittermice and the plovers pass:
I wonder if the wailing birds, and the soft hair-covered things
Of the air, and the grey wind hear what sighing song she sings
Of the air, and the grey wind hear what sighing song she sings
Down in the quiet hollow where the coiled twilights of hair
Are gathered into the darkness that broods on her bosom bare?
Are gathered into the darkness that broods on her bosom bare?
113
It is said that the dead sing, though we have no ears to hear,
And that whoso lists is lickt up of the Shadow, too, because of fear—
And that whoso lists is lickt up of the Shadow, too, because of fear—
But this would give me no fear, that I heard a sighing song from her lips:
No, but as the green heart of an upthrust towering billow slips
No, but as the green heart of an upthrust towering billow slips
Down into the green hollow of the ingathering wave,
So would I slip, and sink, and drown, in her grassy grave.
So would I slip, and sink, and drown, in her grassy grave.
For is not my desire there, hidden away under the cloudy night
Of her long hair that was my valley of whispers and delight—
Of her long hair that was my valley of whispers and delight—
And in her two white hands, like still swans on a frozen lake,
Hath she not my heart that I have hidden there for dear love's sake?
Hath she not my heart that I have hidden there for dear love's sake?
Alas, there is no sighing song, no breath in the silence there:
Not even the white moth that loves death flits through her hair
Not even the white moth that loves death flits through her hair
114
As the bird of Brigid, made of foam and the pale moonwhite wine
Of dreams, flits under the sombre windless plumes of the pine.
Of dreams, flits under the sombre windless plumes of the pine.
I hear a voice crying, crying, crying: is it the wind
I hear, crying its old weary cry time out of mind?
I hear, crying its old weary cry time out of mind?
The grey wind weeps, the grey wind weeps, the grey wind weeps:
Dust on her breast, dust on her eyes, the grey wind weeps!
Dust on her breast, dust on her eyes, the grey wind weeps!
| Poems and Dramas by "Fiona MacLeod" (William Sharp) | |