 | Dirge for Aoine and other poems |  |
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DIRGE FOR AOINE AND OTHER POEMS
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DIRGE FOR AOINE
(A Fairy)
White and golden here she lies;
Mouth-of-Rose was she.
Violets hide her sleeping eyes;
Leaves of rosemary
Keep her from the rainy skies,
Winter's cold or spring's surprise,
Brawling summer bee.
Mouth-of-Rose was she.
Violets hide her sleeping eyes;
Leaves of rosemary
Keep her from the rainy skies,
Winter's cold or spring's surprise,
Brawling summer bee.
White and golden flowers we bring,
Gipsy-rose and broom:
Spider shall not snare her wing,
Yellow wasp not dare to sting
What we cover, while we sing,
Under drifts of bloom;
But bees bring her, murmuring,
Honey and perfume.
Gipsy-rose and broom:
Spider shall not snare her wing,
Yellow wasp not dare to sting
What we cover, while we sing,
Under drifts of bloom;
But bees bring her, murmuring,
Honey and perfume.
Oh my grief! her yellow hair
Tempts no wind to-day.
Folded round her forehead fair
All her tresses stay,
Stealing from the summer air
Half its gold away.
Suddenly the woods are bare—
Beechwoods that so shining were
In the moon of May.
Tempts no wind to-day.
Folded round her forehead fair
All her tresses stay,
Stealing from the summer air
Half its gold away.
Suddenly the woods are bare—
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In the moon of May.
She will never rise again,
Woman o' the Shee.
In the moonlight fair and fain
She will never be.
Poppies red and bearded grain,
Bending, bowing in the rain,
Sunrise-gold and sunset-stain
She will never see.
For her ears all songs are vain,
Tossed from tree to tree.
Woman o' the Shee.
In the moonlight fair and fain
She will never be.
Poppies red and bearded grain,
Bending, bowing in the rain,
Sunrise-gold and sunset-stain
She will never see.
For her ears all songs are vain,
Tossed from tree to tree.
'Tis my grief that we must go
(Thus our doom is said)
Dancing lightly as the snow,
Or as autumn leaves that blow
Lightly, lightly to and fro,
With no tears to shed,
Though we loved her yellow head,
Though her yellow head is low
Where the tattered ragweeds grow,
Though the very squirrels know
Aoine's dead.
(Thus our doom is said)
Dancing lightly as the snow,
Or as autumn leaves that blow
Lightly, lightly to and fro,
With no tears to shed,
Though we loved her yellow head,
Though her yellow head is low
Where the tattered ragweeds grow,
Though the very squirrels know
Aoine's dead.
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DIRGE FOR PRINCE ART
(Desired by the Fairies, and being Cold to Them, Slain by an Elf-bolt)
White of skin and brown of hair,
Here he lies who has done with care.
Goibnu's feast called long for him;
Manan's guests made a song for him.
Here he lies who has done with care.
Goibnu's feast called long for him;
Manan's guests made a song for him.
He who eats at Goibnu's feast,
May not be hurt by man or beast;
He who listens to Manan's song,
Hears no other his whole life long.
May not be hurt by man or beast;
He who listens to Manan's song,
Hears no other his whole life long.
Manan's guests, and Goibnu's kin,
All in vain they called him in.
Naught he heeded the merrows' call,
Though soft they sang to him one and all.
All in vain they called him in.
Naught he heeded the merrows' call,
Though soft they sang to him one and all.
Naught he heeded of charm or spell,
Holy thorn-tree or haunted well,
Naught he heeded of sowlth or shee,
Or fruit that grew on the quicken-tree.
Holy thorn-tree or haunted well,
Naught he heeded of sowlth or shee,
Or fruit that grew on the quicken-tree.
Wandering signs in the sky he knew,
Magic of moonlight, rain and dew:
Turned his steps not for foul or fair,
Long though they for his soul set snare.
Magic of moonlight, rain and dew:
Turned his steps not for foul or fair,
Long though they for his soul set snare.
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Neither has won him. Here he lies
Sleeping under the wakeful skies.
The stars behold him, the wind has ears—
Ah! but he neither sees nor hears.
Sleeping under the wakeful skies.
The stars behold him, the wind has ears—
Ah! but he neither sees nor hears.
Call to him, cry to him, wind and rain,
Breath of the clover, o'er him again
Pass and tarry, if he should wake;
Earth, be moved for his sleeping sake.
Breath of the clover, o'er him again
Pass and tarry, if he should wake;
Earth, be moved for his sleeping sake.
Here's the beauty we thought to win,
And the light is quenched that shone bright within
Here's the body we loved and slew:
Art, but where is the soul of you?
And the light is quenched that shone bright within
Here's the body we loved and slew:
Art, but where is the soul of you?
Cover softly the quiet face;
Leaves are thick in his sleeping-place.
The soul of him goes far and free,
And the body's left to the Lianan-sidhe.
Leaves are thick in his sleeping-place.
The soul of him goes far and free,
And the body's left to the Lianan-sidhe.
Empty hands we have folded close
Over buds of the gipsy-rose:
Over his breast and the arrow there
We have laid a mantle of maiden-hair.
Over buds of the gipsy-rose:
Over his breast and the arrow there
We have laid a mantle of maiden-hair.
We that watched at his head and feet,
Yield our watch to the meadowsweet.
We that loved him and could not win
Breathing body or soul within—
Yield our watch to the meadowsweet.
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Breathing body or soul within—
We, immortal, who cannot weep,
Give our grief to the winds to keep.
Here we have all we knew of fair—
White of skin and brown of hair,
Ululu!
Give our grief to the winds to keep.
Here we have all we knew of fair—
White of skin and brown of hair,
Ululu!
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THE ROWING-SONG OF KING ATLI
Row, row, through the darkling sea—
One king's daughter is waiting me:
Her hair is unbound till I come to land,
And gather her hair in my conqueror's hand,
And set my crown on her shining head
And bear her, crowned, to our wedding-bed.
One king's daughter is waiting me:
Her hair is unbound till I come to land,
And gather her hair in my conqueror's hand,
And set my crown on her shining head
And bear her, crowned, to our wedding-bed.
Row, row, under skies of gray—
Two kings' sisters I carried away.
They sleep in my byre and they milk my kine,
And the dreams they dream are servants of mine.
Two kings' sisters I carried away.
They sleep in my byre and they milk my kine,
And the dreams they dream are servants of mine.
Row, row, through the threshing waves—
Red cocks crow over three kings' graves.
Their wives at my will they saw and knew;
Then my mercy spoke and my henchmen slew.
Red cocks crow over three kings' graves.
Their wives at my will they saw and knew;
Then my mercy spoke and my henchmen slew.
Row, row, while the oar-blades hold—
Four kings' children I bought and sold:
Two that had sucked at the same kind breast
I sundered as far as East from West.
Four kings' children I bought and sold:
Two that had sucked at the same kind breast
I sundered as far as East from West.
One that had cursed me I clothed in gold,
And into the hand of a sultan sold;
One that had silently ta'en my yoke
I gave for a slave to my fisher-folk.
And into the hand of a sultan sold;
One that had silently ta'en my yoke
I gave for a slave to my fisher-folk.
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Row, row, through the sea-fires' flare—
Five kings' women gave me their hair;
Soft was the flaxen and long the brown,
Worthy the black hair to bear a crown,
But Gudrun's gold hair shines them all down.
Five kings' women gave me their hair;
Soft was the flaxen and long the brown,
Worthy the black hair to bear a crown,
But Gudrun's gold hair shines them all down.
Row, row, while the wind holds fair,
Six kings' brothers my banner bear:
On a golden field black swoops the raven
With fear on its wings from haven to haven.
Six kings' brothers my banner bear:
On a golden field black swoops the raven
With fear on its wings from haven to haven.
Row, row, while the shore-winds blow!
Seven queens with my herd-girls go:
Fierce and shy are my cattle all,
Far must my herds go, long must they call.
Seven queens with my herd-girls go:
Fierce and shy are my cattle all,
Far must my herds go, long must they call.
Row, row, lest the good winds fail!
Eight queens shall pour me my wedding-ale,
Light the torches and smoothly spread
The covers of sendal sewn with red.
Eight queens shall pour me my wedding-ale,
Light the torches and smoothly spread
The covers of sendal sewn with red.
Row, row, for the shore is nigh;
Nine kings I've made; and the tenth am I,
And I am little and swart to see,
And white is the woman that waits for me.
Nine kings I've made; and the tenth am I,
And I am little and swart to see,
And white is the woman that waits for me.
Atli the Hun, I come a-land
With the strength of ten kings in my hand;
And she that I seek is deadly fair
With the beauty of ten in her eyes and hair.
With the strength of ten kings in my hand;
And she that I seek is deadly fair
With the beauty of ten in her eyes and hair.
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AUGUST
Red blossoms to the rosy earth I bring:
The sharp-thorned briar for me is all aflush.
I set red holly-hocks a-blossoming
Rosier than ever hawthorn flowered in spring,
And every bush of mine's a burning bush.
The sharp-thorned briar for me is all aflush.
I set red holly-hocks a-blossoming
Rosier than ever hawthorn flowered in spring,
And every bush of mine's a burning bush.
'Mid sworded leaves the gladioli push
Scarlet and crimson; damask roses fling
Red leaves upon my pathway. Musicking
Before my pageant goes the enamoured thrush;
There is no pause of beauty, of song no hush.
Red admirals fly about me, light of wing,
And love-lies-bleeding for my garland grows
With spicy southernwood and gipsy-rose.
Scarlet and crimson; damask roses fling
Red leaves upon my pathway. Musicking
Before my pageant goes the enamoured thrush;
There is no pause of beauty, of song no hush.
Red admirals fly about me, light of wing,
And love-lies-bleeding for my garland grows
With spicy southernwood and gipsy-rose.
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BEAUTY
Beauty was born of the world's desire
For the wandering water, the wandering fire.
Under the arch of her hurrying feet,
She has trodden a world full of bittersweet.
For the wandering water, the wandering fire.
Under the arch of her hurrying feet,
She has trodden a world full of bittersweet.
The blood of the violet is in her veins;
Her pulse has the passion of April rains.
Out of the heart of a satin flower
God made her eyelids in one sweet hour.
Her pulse has the passion of April rains.
Out of the heart of a satin flower
God made her eyelids in one sweet hour.
Out of the wind He made her feet
That they might be lovely, and luring, and fleet.
Out of a cloud He wove her hair
Heavy and black with the rain held there.
That they might be lovely, and luring, and fleet.
Out of a cloud He wove her hair
Heavy and black with the rain held there.
What is her name? There's none that knows—
Mother-o'-mischief, or Mouth-o'-rose.
What is her pathway? None may tell,
But it climbs to heaven and it dips to hell.
Mother-o'-mischief, or Mouth-o'-rose.
What is her pathway? None may tell,
But it climbs to heaven and it dips to hell.
The garment on her is mist and fire,
Anger and sorrow and heart's desire.
Her forehead-jewel 's an amethyst;
The garland to her is love-in-a-mist.
Anger and sorrow and heart's desire.
Her forehead-jewel 's an amethyst;
The garland to her is love-in-a-mist.
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Her girdle is of the beryl-stone,
And one dark rose for her flower has grown,
Filled to the brim with the strength o' the sun,
A passionate rose, and only one.
And one dark rose for her flower has grown,
Filled to the brim with the strength o' the sun,
A passionate rose, and only one.
The bird in her breast sings all day long
A wonderful, wistful, whispering song,
The song that is of all passing things:
None knows it—wingless or born with wings.
A wonderful, wistful, whispering song,
The song that is of all passing things:
None knows it—wingless or born with wings.
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THE BLACKBIRD
The blackbird has a mouth of gold, though sombre be his feathers;
The lark is for the summer noon, the blackbird for all weathers.
The lark he sets his heart above all things that are on earth,
But the blackbird in the cherry-tree finds rest and food and mirth.
The lark is for the summer noon, the blackbird for all weathers.
The lark he sets his heart above all things that are on earth,
But the blackbird in the cherry-tree finds rest and food and mirth.
The blackbird is a bonny bird despite his mourning colour;
He sings but all the merrier when earth and skies grow duller.
He whistles and he sings the while he swings from tree to tree,
For a rare mate and a fair mate in the cherry-boughs has he.
He sings but all the merrier when earth and skies grow duller.
He whistles and he sings the while he swings from tree to tree,
For a rare mate and a fair mate in the cherry-boughs has he.
Of all the trees in the orchard the cherry tree's the best,
For deep amid its branches, like a blithe heart in its breast,
There lilts a hidden blackbird and he's singing to his dear,
And who would grudge their cherries so sweet a song to hear?
For deep amid its branches, like a blithe heart in its breast,
There lilts a hidden blackbird and he's singing to his dear,
And who would grudge their cherries so sweet a song to hear?
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Oh, who would grudge their whitehearts to pay for such a song?
God love the merry blackbird who lifts the year along:
God shield the blackbird's nestlings and the blackbird's brooding wife,
And fill with sweets full measure the days of the blackbird's life.
God love the merry blackbird who lifts the year along:
God shield the blackbird's nestlings and the blackbird's brooding wife,
And fill with sweets full measure the days of the blackbird's life.
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BRIGIT OF THE JUDGMENTS
I am Brigit—Wisdom, Light: yea, I am Bride.
I loosen all the knots that wrong has tied;
I knot all threads that should be woven in one.
I am the giver of laws; all evil done
Is on my heart until I may unravel
Its web with heavy tears and bitter travail.
My hair is coloured like the heather honey;
My brows are cloudy and my eyes are sunny.
Judgment I hold in one hand, in the other
Pity; I am both maiden and a mother.
I loosen all the knots that wrong has tied;
I knot all threads that should be woven in one.
I am the giver of laws; all evil done
Is on my heart until I may unravel
Its web with heavy tears and bitter travail.
My hair is coloured like the heather honey;
My brows are cloudy and my eyes are sunny.
Judgment I hold in one hand, in the other
Pity; I am both maiden and a mother.
I am the judgment-giver; but I give
Compassion to all burdened things that live,
Struggle, and prey, and so are preyed upon.
Because the work-girl's hollow cheeks are wan,
Mine are so pale. Because the red ant dies
Under a careless foot my deathless eyes
Are dark with dool. Because the red fox went
Snarling to death, the lilies have no scent
That are amid my breast-knots tied, to show
I am the mother of all that fade and grow.
Compassion to all burdened things that live,
Struggle, and prey, and so are preyed upon.
Because the work-girl's hollow cheeks are wan,
Mine are so pale. Because the red ant dies
Under a careless foot my deathless eyes
Are dark with dool. Because the red fox went
Snarling to death, the lilies have no scent
That are amid my breast-knots tied, to show
I am the mother of all that fade and grow.
One man may call me Wisdom who has heard
Some darkling midnight stabbed through with my word.
One man will call me Light who, ere he dies,
Grasps at my hand and looks me in the eyes.
I am no Lianan-sidhe; I will not follow
The soul that seeks me even in the hollow
Lands where the moon is not or any sun,
No travail ended and no quest begun.
I slay the man who called me Law and strove
To slay me, but one name of mine is Love.
Some darkling midnight stabbed through with my word.
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Grasps at my hand and looks me in the eyes.
I am no Lianan-sidhe; I will not follow
The soul that seeks me even in the hollow
Lands where the moon is not or any sun,
No travail ended and no quest begun.
I slay the man who called me Law and strove
To slay me, but one name of mine is Love.
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A CONNAUGHT LOVER'S LAMENT
(TO CAROLINE AUGUSTA HOPPER)
I will arise and go hence to the west,
And dig me a grave where the hill-winds call;
But O were I dead, were I dust, the fall
Of my own love's footstep would break my rest!
And dig me a grave where the hill-winds call;
But O were I dead, were I dust, the fall
Of my own love's footstep would break my rest!
My heart in my bosom is black as a sloe!
I heed not cuckoo, or wren, or swallow:
Like a flying leaf in the sky's blue hollow
The heart in my breast is that's mad with woe.
I heed not cuckoo, or wren, or swallow:
Like a flying leaf in the sky's blue hollow
The heart in my breast is that's mad with woe.
Because of the words your lips have spoken
(O dear black head that I must not follow)
My heart is a grave that is stripped and hollow,
As ice on the water my heart is broken.
(O dear black head that I must not follow)
My heart is a grave that is stripped and hollow,
As ice on the water my heart is broken.
O lips forgetful and kindness fickle,
The swallow goes south with you: I go west
Where fields are empty and scythes at rest.
I am the poppy and you the sickle;
My heart is broken within my breast.
The swallow goes south with you: I go west
Where fields are empty and scythes at rest.
I am the poppy and you the sickle;
My heart is broken within my breast.
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THE CONNAUGHTMAN RETURNING
There's a grey fog over Dublin of the curses,
It blinds my eyes, mavrone, and stops my breath;
And I travel slow that once could run the swiftest,
And I fear ere I meet Mauryeen I'll meet Death.
It blinds my eyes, mavrone, and stops my breath;
And I travel slow that once could run the swiftest,
And I fear ere I meet Mauryeen I'll meet Death.
There's a grey fog over Dublin of the curses,
And a grey fog dogs my footsteps as they go,
And it's long and sore to tread, the road to Connaught.
Is it fault of brogues or feet I fare so slow?
And a grey fog dogs my footsteps as they go,
And it's long and sore to tread, the road to Connaught.
Is it fault of brogues or feet I fare so slow?
There's a grey fog over Dublin of the curses,
But the Connaught wind will blow it from my way,
And a Connaught girl will kiss it from my memory,
If the Death that walks beside me will delay.
But the Connaught wind will blow it from my way,
And a Connaught girl will kiss it from my memory,
If the Death that walks beside me will delay.
(There's a grey fog over Dublin of the curses,
And no wind comes to break its stillness deep;
And a Connaughtman lies on the road to Connaught,
And Mauryeen will not kiss him from his sleep—Ululu!)
And no wind comes to break its stillness deep;
And a Connaughtman lies on the road to Connaught,
And Mauryeen will not kiss him from his sleep—Ululu!)
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THE CUCKOO SINGS IN THE HEART OF WINTER
The cuckoo sings in the heart of winter,
And all for Mauryeen he tunes his song;
How Mauryeen's hair is the honey's colour
(He sings of her all the winter long!).
And all for Mauryeen he tunes his song;
How Mauryeen's hair is the honey's colour
(He sings of her all the winter long!).
Her long loose hair 's of the honey 's colour,
The wild sweet honey that wild bees make;
The sun herself is ashamed before her
The moon is pale for her gold cool's sake.
The wild sweet honey that wild bees make;
The sun herself is ashamed before her
The moon is pale for her gold cool's sake.
She bound her hair of the honey's colour,
With flowers of yarrow and quicken green,
And now one binds it with leaves of willow,
And cypress lies where my head has been.
With flowers of yarrow and quicken green,
And now one binds it with leaves of willow,
And cypress lies where my head has been.
Now robins sing beside Pastheen's doorway,
And wrens for bounty that Grania gave:
The cuckoo sings in the heart of winter;
He sings all day beside Mauryeen's grave.
And wrens for bounty that Grania gave:
The cuckoo sings in the heart of winter;
He sings all day beside Mauryeen's grave.
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DALUA
If I 'm the faery fool, Dalua—
Ay me, the faery fool!—
How do I know what the rushes say,
Sighing and shivering night and day
Over their shadowy pool?
How do I know what the North wind cries,
Counting his beads of snow:
The menace that lies in the Hunter's eyes
How do I know?
Ay me, the faery fool!—
How do I know what the rushes say,
Sighing and shivering night and day
Over their shadowy pool?
How do I know what the North wind cries,
Counting his beads of snow:
The menace that lies in the Hunter's eyes
How do I know?
If I 'm the faery fool, Dalua—
Ay me, the faery fool!—
I cry to those that sent me here,
To laugh and jest, to geck and fleer,
To scorn at law and rule,
“Why did ye also give to me
Beauty and peace to know?
The ears to hear and the eyes to see
And the hands that let all go?”
Ay me, the faery fool!—
I cry to those that sent me here,
To laugh and jest, to geck and fleer,
To scorn at law and rule,
“Why did ye also give to me
Beauty and peace to know?
The ears to hear and the eyes to see
And the hands that let all go?”
I cry to them that bade me jest
“Why made ye me so slight,
Yet put a heart within my breast,
An evil gift, an evil guest,
To spoil me for delight?
Made for mere laughter, answer why
Must I have eyes for dool?
Take from me tears, or let me die,
For I am sick of wisdom, I
Dalua, the faery fool!”
“Why made ye me so slight,
Yet put a heart within my breast,
An evil gift, an evil guest,
To spoil me for delight?
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Must I have eyes for dool?
Take from me tears, or let me die,
For I am sick of wisdom, I
Dalua, the faery fool!”
| Dirge for Aoine and other poems | |