Dirge for Aoine and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Can you not see me careless? Can you not feel me weak,
Dear hands upon my heartstrings, dear lips upon my cheek?
Out of a world of wandering men is this the man you seek?

These eyes that look through yours, my dear, have looked into the pit,
Will look again and yet again and linger over it:
For there are lights that shine at nights not all in heaven lit.

If I am Jack o' Lanthorn, sweet, a homeless thing am I.
I cannot warm you but must see you cold until you die;
Will you not choose a homely hearth to sit and warm you by?

You choose the wildfire none the less, you'll follow where I go?
Ah! steadfast heart and sweet heart, made strong for me to know,
Although I go I will return; although I change and grow,

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Change and lessen, on your soul my wayward soul I stay,
Your steady light my wandering light shall draw and feed and sway,
And I will love you, sweet, as long as Jack o' Lanthorn may.

JANUARY

I am a mighty Hunter—a Hunter before the Lord;
The lean white bears they know me and come and go at my word.
The Northern Lights are my dancing girls; the Hunter Star 's my mate,
And we talk o' nights of Diana dead, and the Gaul-folk at the gate.

Oh golden head of Diana dead, if I came on your sleep one day
And looked on you till passion grew and reason fled away,
If I should kneel from your lips to steal, what would your blue eyes do?
No arrows smite like your eyes' cold light, as well Orion knew.

Oh sweet and stern, would you only turn, sighing amid your sleep,
And dream again of some battle-plain and fire on some towered keep,
And never dream you were kissed of him who walks in the endless snow,
And may not sleep, though the dark be deep, till the Judgment Day doth glow?

O stern and sweet, if I kissed your feet, would you wake and smile to foreknow
Another life as estranged from strife as joy is estranged from woe?
But 'tis best to sleep since the night is deep on Egypt and Greece and Rome
And the dust is shed upon Hera's head, and Venus has passed in foam.

Diana being silent now as any in the host
Of mortals who to Hades have by Charon's ferry crost,
Remembrance is not better than a deathless rose that I
See bloom in token of the sun upon the evening sky.

My servant, Wind, ere Fate did find herself too old to play,
All unafraid 'twixt sun and shade, kissed half her gloom away,
And gardens green he hath entered in, but counsel close keeps he,
And what he knows of the rose, the rose, he will not sing to me.

You have sung, God wot, of a hunter's lot, of bears in the ice-caves green,
Of silent lips and of goodly ships that are not but have been.

You have made a song of my north wind strong, of the track of my feet in the snow,
But of strife that's mine and of life that's mine, what word do you rhymers know?

You have painted me with a face before and a face that looketh back,
But I go as a man to battle goes, and I turn not on my track.
The stars 'twixt man and will of man their will may interpose:
I do their Maker's pleasure for my own upon the snows.

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THE JESTER

A Jester, a winner of empty laughter,
Grew sick of life, and the life hereafter,
Of sea, and sky, and the seasons four.
“I will die,” he said, “as my mirth is dying,
Lie down as the fallen tree is lying
On Earth's brown bosom, and hear no more
The madman's laughter, the sage's sighing.”

The Jester went when his mood was sorest
Into the heart of the autumn forest;
Round him and past him in nerveless haste
The dead leaves whirled in a helpless eddy.
“Here,” said the Jester, “the year makes ready
To die as gladly as I, to waste
Like wine that 's spilled from a cup unsteady.”

He lay in the leaves and a sound of laughter
Rang through the forest: before him, after,
Around, above him, the laughter swept.
A girl came berrying down the hedges;
The wind dropped dead at the forest edges
As a bird from the stone that a slinger fledges.
The woman came, and the man that slept
In the Jester out of the dead leaves leapt;
He caught her hands, and her heart he kept.

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JESUS AT BETHLEHEM

(A Christmas Carol)

Baby Christ in the manger
Lay, with kine around.
Softer than the woven silk,
Warm as love, and white as milk
Mary's arms He found;
Snowflakes through the broken roof
Made strewings for the ground.

Little Christ in the garden
Lay, and laughed to greet
Roses of a hundred leaves,
Red as skies on frosty eves,
Damask-red and sweet.
It was but a dying rose
Made strewings for His feet.

Man Christ into the city
Through Hosannas rode:
Grey old mothers prayed for Him,
Tall centurions stayed for Him,
Herds forgot the goad;
Man and babe and maid for Him
Green palm-branches strowed.

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Thus have I wrought my carol
Out of drifted snow,
Strewings of red rose-leaves fair,
Palms that greenly grow.
Let us make to-night for Thee
Cold hearths kind and bright for Thee,
Wash our stained hearts white for Thee,
Lattices make light for Thee,
Child, and Man, and Saviour,
As of long ago.

JUNE

Dark red roses in a honeyed wind swinging,
Silk-soft hollyhock, coloured like the moon;
Larks high overhead lost in light, and singing;
That 's the way of June.

Dark red roses in the warm wind falling,
Velvet leaf by velvet leaf, all the breathless noon;
Far-off sea-waves calling, calling, calling;
That 's the way of June.

Sweet as scarlet strawberry under wet leaves hidden,
Honeyed as the damask rose, lavish as the moon.
Shedding lovely light on things forgotten, hope forbidden—
That 's the way of June.

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KATHALEEN NY-HOULAHAN

O Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan, your face is like a star,
Your face has led me to your feet o'er wastes and waters far;
Your face has made a day for me where only twilights are,
O Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan, my star!

O Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan, why loved I aught but you?
I took a woman to my wife, and kind she was and true,
But your gray eyes shone out on me within her eyes of blue,
And, Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan, my soul went after you.

O Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan, it's old I am and gray,
I see the dead leaves blown about the closing of my day;
The dead leaves, the red leaves, are rotting in my way,
O Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan, to-day.

O Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan, my Eily's grave is green,
And I've grown old a-seeking your face through tears and teen:
I 'll turn my feet from this straight path, where your white feet have been
And turned the dry ferns young again and green.

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I'll turn my feet from every path but one—the churchyard way:
I'll shut my eyes to every star, and sleep my fill till day;
'Tis Eily will awake me, and you it is will say
“Rise up, play up, old piper, 'tis the dawning of the day.”

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THE KING OF IRELAND'S SON

Now all away to Tir na n' Og are many roads that run,
But he has ta'en the longest lane, the King of Ireland's son.

Where Aongus goes there 's many a rose burns red 'mid shadows dun;
No rose there is will draw his kiss, the King of Ireland's son.

And yonder where the sun is high Love laughs amid the hay,
But smile and sigh have passed him by, and never make delay.

And here (and O! the sun is low!) they're glad for harvest won,
But naught he cares for wheat or tares, the King of Ireland's son!

And you have flung love's apple by, and I'm to pluck it yet;
But what are fruits of gramarye with druid dews beset?

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Oh, what are magic fruits to him who meets the Lianan sidhe?
Or hears athwart the distance dim Fionn's horn blow drowsily?

The star is yours to win or lose, and me the dusk has won,
He follows after shadows, the King of Ireland's son.

THE THREE KINGS

Out of the East we have followed a star,
Gaspar, Melchior, Balthazar.
I who am Melchior, bent and gray,
Bear not lightly the toilsome way;
Bear not gladly the shivering wind,
Leagues before us and leagues behind.
Crown and orb will not keep from the cold;
I was a King, but now I am old.

Many a battle and many a scar
Marked out my cousin Balthazar:
Of Gaspar the boy no harpers sing—
Of a flowerless country the deedless King.
But age and youth in the quest have met,
And journeys come to the good end set;
And lighting down by a stable door
I bring the homage of Melchior.

“I bring and give to the Holy Child
Snowy pearls for the Undefiled,
Rose-red rubies that put to shame
Flower of sunset or flower of flame.
Jasper, jacinth, and selenite,
Sea-green beryl and malachite,
Milky fires that in opals shine;
Take, little King, for they all are Thine.”

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But mine-brought jewel or sea-wrought gem,
The fair Child heeded not one of them.

Then knelt and greeted Him, Balthazar,
Swart and scarred from his last wild war.
“Here, little King, is homage free—
He knows not Herod who kneels to Thee.
Gums I have brought Thee, sweet with spice
As winds that blow out of Paradise,
A lump of amber that fishers drew
Up where the green sea meets the blue,
A silver casket, a bag of musk,
And a dagger carved from a wild beast's tusk.”

But the young Child turned from the spice and gums,
And now 'tis Gaspar who greeting comes.
“My country lies near the sunrise: thence
I have brought but a handful of frankincense
And a little flasket of bitter myrrh.
Poor is my land and the King of her,
And out of our poortith thus I bring
Gifts for a slave, not gifts for a King.”

But deep in the young Child's quiet eyes
We saw a flickering smile arise,
And the little hands that were all too frail
To grasp red ruby or silver pale,

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They closed and clung over Gaspar's gift—
And we went forth in the blinding drift.

The Child was scarce to a lad's height grown,
When over my grave they laid the stone,
With many a royal and wizard rite,
And torches scaring afar the night.
He had broken the seals on Lazarus set
When Balthazar and his death-hour met.
Gaspar wept over Him when He died,
Kneeling and mourning the Cross beside,
When the veil of the Temple was torn in twain,
And the earth was rocking in travail-pain.

We are dead and dust, and our realms forget
That ever such Kings by a stable met,
Yet we remember and rise and ride,
Ghosts though we be, each Christmas tide.
But the cock crows soon, and it well may be
We shall ride Time down to Eternity.
The clouds are heavy with more than rain,
But we ride, for the Christ is come again,
And we must meet Him as once of old,
With gifts of frankincense, myrrh, and gold.

xxiii

LAÏS

She was the lightest woman in the land;
The homeless thistledown into your hand
You might charm sooner, or the wild fire thrall,
Than bring her wandering fancy to your call.

Some few possessed her: many more desired
To keep and tame her, but no man grew tired
Of this slight thing, more swift to come and go
Than a bird's shadow flickering on the snow.

Her body's flower died, her soul went out.
Poor little gilded taper, blown about
By the great wind of Death, you were but meant
To light some little room o'erbrimmed with scent.

Poor rose, whose last red leaves drop slowly down,
Not to smell sweet again in wreath or crown—
Mimosa, touched and killed by careless hands,
God speed your scared soul in those lightless lands!

xxiv

LAMENT OF THE LAY BROTHER (A.D. 598)

Dedicated to Caroline Augusta Hopper

Iona, O Iona!
My days go sad and slow,
For mid your island meadows
I hear no cattle low.
I miss the fields of Kerry,
The green fields and the kine,
And in my brothers' chanting
Is heard no voice of mine—
Iona, O Iona!

Iona, O Iona!
My mates are glad of cheer,
But I, the Kerry peasant,
Dwell sad and lonely here.
I send an exile's sighing
Across the sundering sea;
O would I were in Kerry,
Or the kine were here with me!

Iona, O Iona!
The Saint sleeps well, I trow,
Nor dreams that one poor brother's
Heartbroke for Ireland now—

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Heartbroke to be a herd-boy
And watch the cattle feed,
And call the cattle homewards
Across the darkening mead.

Iona, O Iona!
All summer swallows stay
About your towers: the sea-gulls
To Ireland take their way.
And would, I cry with weeping,
The sea-gulls' road were mine—
To hear the cattle lowing
And see their eyes with mine,
Iona, O Iona!

xxvi

LAMENT OF THE LAST LEPRECHAUN

(To Caroline Augusta Hopper)

For the red shoon of the Shee,
For the falling o' the leaf,
For the wind among the reeds,
My grief!

For the sorrow of the sea,
For the song's unquickened seeds,
For the sleeping of the Shee,
My grief!

For dishonoured whitethorn-tree,
For the runes that no man reads
Where the grey stones face the sea,
My grief!

Lissakeole, that used to be
Filled with music night and noon,
For their ancient revelry,
My grief!

For the empty fairy shoon,
Hollow rath and yellow leaf,
Hands unkissed to sun or moon,
My grief—my grief!

xxvii

THE LISTENERS

I.

(To E. Nesbit)

Last night, last night, in the dark o' the moon
Into my dreams slid a fairy tune.
It slew the dreams that I dreamed of him
With its moonshine music, faint and dim.
What tune should the fairy pipers play
But “Over the Hills and Far Away.”

The music called to my idle feet,
And O! the music was wild and sweet:
I left my dreams and my lonely bed
And followed afar where the music led,
And never a tune did the pipers play
But “Over the Hills and Far Away.”

Over the hills and far away,
What love has tenderer words to say?
Love that lifteth or bows the head,
Love that liveth or love that's dead?
Hills that are far away are fair,
And I followed the ghost of my lover there.

We danced all night in a silent band,
I and my lover, hand in hand;

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We danced, nor knew till the dew was dry
That deep slept Donat and lone slept I.
We took no thought of the coming day
Over the hills and far away.

My eyes are blind with the growing light,
And O my grief, that the day was night!
For my heart is broke for my lover's eyes,
And all day long in my ears there cries
The tune of the fairy pipes that play
“Over the Hills and Far Away.”

xxix

THE LISTENERS

II.

(To Katharine Tynan)

There's many feet on the moor to-night, and they fall so light as they turn and pass,
So light and true that they shake no dew from the featherfew and the hungry grass.
I drank no sup and I broke no crumb of their food, but dumb at their feast sat I.
For their dancing feet and their piping sweet, now I sit and greet till I 'm like to die.

Oh kind, kind folk, to the words you spoke I shut my ears and I would not hear,
And now all day what my own kin say falls sad and strange on my careless ear;
For I 'm listening, listening, all day long to a fairy song that is blown to me
Over the broom and the canna's bloom, and I know the doom of the Ceol Sidhe.

I take no care now for bee or bird, for a voice I 've heard that is sweeter yet.
My wheel stands idle; at death or bridal apart I stand and my prayers forget.

xxx

When Ulick speaks of my wild-rose cheeks, and his kind love seeks out my heart that's cold,
I take no care, though he speaks me fair, for the new love casts out the love that's old.

I take no care for the blessed prayer, for my mother's hand or my mother's call.
There ever rings in my ear, and sings, a voice more dear, more sweet than all.
Cold, cold's my breast, and broke 's my rest, and O it's blest to be dead I'd be,
Held safe and fast from the fairy blast, and deaf at last to the Ceol Sidhe!

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THE LONELY BODY

It's far away in London I am dwelling now;
I hear no more the wind that blows the green leaves on the bough.
My cup is strange and bitter with the homeless tears I shed,
And bitter in my mouth is the stranger's bread.

But about the well I dipped from, in the fields where I played,
There cries a voice so like my voice my own folk are afraid—
A voice of tears and laughter, a voice that climbs and thrills
In the hazel boughs and on the distant hills.

'Tis nothing but my body that dwells in London here,
And walks among the endless streets, with neither hope nor fear
To quicken listless feet or kindle sullen face
With longing for the ended race.

We care not much who win or lose, not shining is our goal;
It's bread to eat is all our quest. If hungry goes the soul,

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The body's hunger keener is, and in the city street
Pale women strive beside the men for bread to eat.

Above our heads the chimneys reek, and if the wet wind blow
No labour stops, no eyes look up to watch the rainbow grow.
The river turns from gray to black; the stars come out and fade;
Beneath the flaring gas-lamps we ply our trade.

'Tis nothing but my body that is so weary now,
And eats and drinks and sleeps in spite of hopes that tempt and cow;
'Tis nothing but my body that earns the wage you dole,
But far away in Ireland is my free soul.

Far away in Ireland, and would that I were there,
To feel the wet wind blowing the grayness from my hair,
To hear the kind sea calling the gulls that rockward go,
And the men to their drowning with its “hush, hush O!”

Far away in Ireland, my soul is far away
From these your streets that roar by night as restless as by day;

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It is my lonely body that on the bed I made
Lies down to rest, and does not rest, and dreams that it is dead
And buried deep in Irish earth with a grey stone overhead.

xxxiv

LOVE'S SINGER. I. If I had been a Rose

If I had been a rose
And not a woman, would your feet have stayed
A moment in their passing, and in shade
That meeting boughs of lime and lilac made
Would you have stood, and softly touched my flower,
Making me redder, and breathèd in my dower
Of sweetness? Would you gather me, I wonder,
Or pass without a word, and leave me under
My shading leaves to watch my bloom grow dry.
Ah, would you have unkindly passed me by
If I had been a rose?

If I had been a rose,
You had been kinder than to leave me there,
Spilling my sweetness out, half in despair,
And half because remembering is so rare.
'Tis easy withering roses, even in June!
Too rough a wind-touch, or too bright a noon,
The red leaves drop and show the gold heart under
Past dream or daring, past desire or wonder.
Ah, yet be gentle though no rose am I!
My tears are in my heart—my heart were dry
If I had been a rose.

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LOVE'S SINGER. II. Elusion

What would you do if I should give you roses
Who gave you only lilies yesterday?
If I should leave my idle pretty play
Among my shaded sheltered lily-closes,
And give you roses?

If in an hour I changed from girl to woman
And gave you back your kisses, each for each—
And chose, instead of music, passionate speech?
Nay, but I will not, seeing Love's but human,
Unveil the woman.

I 'll keep my mystery and keep my lover;
You who have hung with praise and dream my name,
Being mere man, would find your praise half blame,
If in my soul, full measure running over,
You saw my love for you, not flowers, but flame.

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LOVE'S SINGER. III. A Sleep Song

O Sleep, go, Sleep, hasten to my lover;
Leave my eyelids all forlorn of thy quiet breath.
Where my love lies wakeful, go thou and lean over,
Singing low, singing low, dearest child of Death.
Fair Sleep, rare Sleep, Death that is thy father,
Night that is thy mother, both sow flowers for thee;
White poppies dashed with dew, drowsy flowers to gather,
Yellow rose that silence saith to the busiest bee.

Hear, Sleep, dear Sleep, ere my song be ended,
Gather me thy fairest flowers a soft dream to make
For my love—a dream of scent and of music blended.
Ay, and let me kiss the dream for the dreamer's sake.
O Sleep, blow sleep-dust upon his pillow
Till he dreams it is my breast, and to dream is fain;
Let him think it is my hair, not thy branch of willow,
Dark against the little light through the rain-blurred pane.

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LOVE'S SINGER. IV. The Promise

What shall I make of my life, Dear? what shall I bring to you,
Flower of fair colour, song of tremulous sweep?
Bird that o'er waters of tears on a faithful wing to you
Finds out her way, with a roseleaf for you to keep?
Shell in whose chamber remembered waves shall sing to you
Chimes of sleep?

Bird that homes to you, song that shall sigh and sing to you,
Flower that knoweth its passion, and knoweth not doubt,
Shell that whispers a musical memory out?
Nay, I will make of my life a more lovely thing to you,
Passionate hands, my Heart, that shall clasp you and cling to you,
Daylight and dreaming, living and dying throughout.

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LOVE'S SINGER. V. A Love Song

Are you in the moonlight? No more mine eyes are holden:
I see the light that lightens you; the air you breathe I know.
The spring is green beneath you and above you all is golden,
And while the moon is clear for you I cannot darkling go.

Are you in the darkness where voices cry about you?
Your darkness makes my pathway blind, your pain is sharp in me.
I can hear the tones that trouble you and lure you and flout you;
My grief is round about your grief as round a ship the sea.

I 'm yours and I love you in dreams and out of dreaming;
I am yours when you forget me and yours when you recall.
When you are at your weariest, the ravens round you screaming,
Am I not close beside you, Dear? I see and hear it all.

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Am I yours as you're mine? For you cannot put away
My faithful soul from your soul, if my body lets it go.
My joy is yours, your sorrow mine; and your gloom is on my day,
And my light in your night shall be a star for you to know.

LOVE'S SINGER. VI. Glamour

Out of my window I looked last night;
Under my window the world lay white.
Strong black shadows marked bush and tree,
And I wondered long how this change might be—
Had the snow stolen on us when none could see?

Whiter and whiter the wonder grew,
And the magic of moonlight at last I knew;
With her ghostly light she had mocked the snow,
And the sleeping houses would never know
That the streets beneath them lay glamoured so.

And I thought, as I looked at the street grown strange,
How the face of the world with a dream can change,
How love, like the moon that I could not see,
Makes whiter and fairer than snow can be
My thought of my lover, his thought of me.

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LOVE'S SINGER. VII. Comrades

Give me the reed you lean on; if a spear
My hand shall bleed for 't as your hand has bled
I will not cover up my sheltered head
While you are houseless in the moonlight here.
I must have half your hope and half your fear.

I must go shares in all you drink and eat,
Though it be bread of sorrow and cup of tears.
Sheaves that you gather are my harvest, Dear.
Because I glean beside you down the years,
Your shadow 's never lonely at your feet.

And though all things turn ashes that were sweet,
In deeps below and in the deeps above you,
In moods that strengthen you and moods that weaken
Perplexed in shadow, led by starry beacon,
I go with you, my lover, and I love you.

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LOVE'S SINGER. VIII. A Homing Song

Turn your eyes to me, turn your heart to me,
Out of the trouble of daily things.
Out of your labour your love-thoughts start to me
Homing surely as if they had wings,
Out of the grimy and garrulous mart to me—
Birds that home to my heart that sings.

Birds that home through the world of cages
To the free sweet heaven where love is light,
Come through the crowd that clamours for wages,
Kestrel and pyat and crow and kite.
Here is the place which the longing of sages
Sought and missed, between day and night.

Winds are wild when they 're loosed from tether,
But the wind that blows you to me is kind.
Come then, come, though the evil weather
Throw cloud on to cloud till the day be blind.
Come to my heart and there together
Nestle, my birds, and be glad of night
That sets the wrongs of the long day right.

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LOVE'S SINGER. IX. Love in September

The garden lay about us twain,
Hoarding its sweets up for the rain;
We clung together, you and I,
And heard the minutes hurrying by.
Heart against heart beat heavily;
Your eyes through twilight sought for mine;
My lips drank love from yours like wine.

Our lips together met and clung—
Our love stood beautiful and young
And watched us while the minutes spun
Webs of delight not yet undone,
While our lips, kissing, would not part,
While all the night beat like a heart
Fuller of fire than is the sun
And one great star and only one
Above us for a lantern hung.

My hand in yours so closely lay,
I felt your pulse beat like my own;
I breathed your breath, and in my brain
The seed of your own thought was sown.
The garden walls seemed far away;

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The scent of flowering mint was blown
About us in the gloaming gray.

Twilight and scent for us became
Delicate dreams, and for our sake
No bat or buzzing chafer came
The happy silences to break.
We kissed, and to the lighted room
Came, carrying with us like perfume
As lovely as the rose's name,
The memory of the twilight sweet
In shining eyes and laggard feet.

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LOVE'S SINGER. X. Southernwood

So I have harvested my womanhood
Into one tall green bush of southernwood;
And if the leaves are green about your feet,
And if my fragrance on a day should meet
And brace your weariness, why, not in vain
Shall I have husbanded from sun and rain
My spices if you chance to find them sweet.

I have grown up beneath the sheltering shade
Of roses: roses' poignant scents have made
My sharp spice sweeter than 't was wont to be.
Therefore if any vagrant gather me
And wear me in his bosom, I will give
Him dreams of roses; he shall dream and live,
And wake to find the rose a verity.

Gather me, gather. I have dreams to sell.
The sea is not by any fluted shell
More faithfully remembered than I keep
My thought of roses, through beguiling sleep
And the bewildering day. I 'll give to him
Who gathers me more sweetness than he 'd dream
Without me—more than any lily could;
I that am flowerless, being southernwood.

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LOVE'S SINGER. XI. A Woman's Marriage-song

I have shed my orange blossom:
I have put aside my veil, my head is bare.
I have doffed my snowy shining satin wear.
In my long straight gown of white,
With no garland in my hair,
Am I fair?
Am I fair enough for you, my love, to-night?

When the music swelled to meet me did I falter?
But my feet kept step with your feet from the altar,
And my heart with yours kept beat.
Now I stay my questing feet—
Now beside your soul mine stands,
And my heart is in your hands
Beating upwards like a flame,
And the sigil set upon it is your name.

My veil is off: no more my laces cover
The bird that sings so loudly in my bosom.
Can you hear it now the wedding hymns are over?
Than my veil
Does my hair make softer shadow for my face,
This shadow that with kisses you displace,

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Till I grow a rose that came to you so pale?
Am I sweet enough without my orange-blossom?

I have put aside my veil and orange-blossom.
Unclouded, love, I enter into life
As gladly as the moon comes from her shadow
And floods the fen with silver and the meadow.
Now my maids are gone and musicking is over,
And without the door stands sorrow
Bidding hush the bird that's singing in my bosom.
Will my music be as sweet for you to-morrow
When Time has paled the kisses of your wife?
Is my love so strong that you must be my lover
All my life?