Dirge for Aoine and other poems by Nora Chesson [i.e. Nora Hopper] |
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 | THE HAPPY MAID AND OTHER POEMS |
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 | Dirge for Aoine and other poems |  |
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THE HAPPY MAID AND OTHER POEMS
vii
THE HAPPY MAID
(To Caroline Augusta Hopper)
All the mills in the world are grinding gold grain,
All hearts in the world like my heart should be fain,
For my foot goes in time to a holiday measure
And the bird in my bosom is singing for pleasure.
All hearts in the world like my heart should be fain,
For my foot goes in time to a holiday measure
And the bird in my bosom is singing for pleasure.
Tall soldiers in gold stand the plumed ranks of corn,
And the poppies are dancing for joy of the morn;
They 're gipsies and vagrants, the home-keepers say,
But my heart is at one with the poppies to-day.
And the poppies are dancing for joy of the morn;
They 're gipsies and vagrants, the home-keepers say,
But my heart is at one with the poppies to-day.
I know not what end to my travel shall be,
Or what fairy Prince rides a-seeking for me.
He may be a Sheogue in graithing of gold,
Or a greybeard who tarries for young maids and old.
Or what fairy Prince rides a-seeking for me.
He may be a Sheogue in graithing of gold,
Or a greybeard who tarries for young maids and old.
Meanwhile I go tramping the merry world over,
With the flower of my heart folded close for my lover:
Folded safely and close till my Prince come and claim
The bud long asleep, and the flower turn a flame.
With the flower of my heart folded close for my lover:
Folded safely and close till my Prince come and claim
The bud long asleep, and the flower turn a flame.
Meanwhile I go tramping, a masterless maid,
With flowers blowing for me in sunshine and shade,
White poppies, red poppies, sea poppies of amber,
And a wreath for my head of all wild vines that clamber.
With flowers blowing for me in sunshine and shade,
White poppies, red poppies, sea poppies of amber,
And a wreath for my head of all wild vines that clamber.
viii
I am one with the wind and the flowers in the corn,
And I and the wind laugh aloud in our scorn
At the bedesmen who quarrel earth's meadow-lands over,
While there 's roses on bushes and honey in clover.
And I and the wind laugh aloud in our scorn
At the bedesmen who quarrel earth's meadow-lands over,
While there 's roses on bushes and honey in clover.
ix
THREE MAIDS
We three went out together—
Margery, Maud and I,
In April's last soft weather,
Ere the May dawn drew nigh.
We washed our faces in may-dew,
And saw the moon fade in the blue
Waste highlands of the sky.
Margery, Maud and I,
In April's last soft weather,
Ere the May dawn drew nigh.
We washed our faces in may-dew,
And saw the moon fade in the blue
Waste highlands of the sky.
We maids went out a-maying,
To seek what we could find,
And fairy pipes were playing
Before us and behind.
We could not see the Pixy-folk,
Or hear the mocking words they spoke,
For blowing of the wind.
To seek what we could find,
And fairy pipes were playing
Before us and behind.
We could not see the Pixy-folk,
Or hear the mocking words they spoke,
For blowing of the wind.
Maud found a black lamb straying,
And took the sheep-fold way.
Margery went a-maying,
Sullen, but came back gay
Because she found an amber comb.
She took a fairy treasure home;
I only brought home may.
And took the sheep-fold way.
Margery went a-maying,
Sullen, but came back gay
Because she found an amber comb.
She took a fairy treasure home;
I only brought home may.
When in her yellow tresses
The amber comb we see,
Wives curse, and no man blesses
This maid called Margery.
Her beauty is a hunter's snare;
Men's souls are netted in her hair
And cannot come forth free.
The amber comb we see,
x
This maid called Margery.
Her beauty is a hunter's snare;
Men's souls are netted in her hair
And cannot come forth free.
We three heard Pixies blowing
Their pipes. Two of the three
Can hear the long grass growing,
The winter wind can see.
Maud's in her grave, nor cares nor knows
Whether the stray lamb comes or goes,
And I am as a folded rose
Till a Pixy gather me.
Their pipes. Two of the three
Can hear the long grass growing,
The winter wind can see.
Maud's in her grave, nor cares nor knows
Whether the stray lamb comes or goes,
And I am as a folded rose
Till a Pixy gather me.
xi
MARCH
I go beneath triumphal arches
Of linden-yellow and ash-green:
I hang upon the elms and larches
The colours of my May, the queen.
Of linden-yellow and ash-green:
I hang upon the elms and larches
The colours of my May, the queen.
Before me goes the first wild swallow;
For me the daffodils delay:
After my feet the flagflowers follow
And gorse grows gold about my way.
For me the daffodils delay:
After my feet the flagflowers follow
And gorse grows gold about my way.
Two wings are pinions at my shoulder;
Two wings are plumes upon my feet:
The earth that drowsed grows younger, bolder,
And with warm mouth my kiss doth meet.
Two wings are plumes upon my feet:
The earth that drowsed grows younger, bolder,
And with warm mouth my kiss doth meet.
xii
MATER DOLOROSA
A Winter Song
Earth takes but little pleasure to remember—
Being a widow now, that was a wife—
How sweet May was, how bountiful September,
What wayward music April's chanter blew.
Her leaping fires of life
Burn down beneath the fall of frosty dew,
And dwindle slowly to the last red ember
That is December.
Being a widow now, that was a wife—
How sweet May was, how bountiful September,
What wayward music April's chanter blew.
Her leaping fires of life
Burn down beneath the fall of frosty dew,
And dwindle slowly to the last red ember
That is December.
She knows not how it went, the Linus-song
Whose burden the brown reapers bore along
As they brought home the sheaves.
Nay, though the thistle yielded figs, from thorn
Though purple grapes were born,
She would not wonder. She is past surprise;
The certainty of grief is in her eyes,
And that she once was glad she scarce believes.
Whose burden the brown reapers bore along
As they brought home the sheaves.
Nay, though the thistle yielded figs, from thorn
Though purple grapes were born,
She would not wonder. She is past surprise;
The certainty of grief is in her eyes,
And that she once was glad she scarce believes.
She dares not pray for summer to return.
Against her eyelids burn
The tears that fall not,—for what use are tears?
Above her head a naked plane-tree rears
Wild arms of all despair,
Reaching out blindly through the frosty air
For its beloved leaves that rotting lie
Where Winter with his ménie has passed by.
Against her eyelids burn
The tears that fall not,—for what use are tears?
Above her head a naked plane-tree rears
Wild arms of all despair,
Reaching out blindly through the frosty air
xiii
Where Winter with his ménie has passed by.
Under the touch of their empoisoned spears,
The fair and gallant wood
That all the summer-time green-coated stood,
Stands naked to the bone, and wrings its hands
Above the altered lands.
Earth watches while her little children die—
The frozen wasp, the starving butterfly.
She has no tears for them, but in her heart
Knife-edged the Seven Sorrows wake and start.
The fair and gallant wood
That all the summer-time green-coated stood,
Stands naked to the bone, and wrings its hands
Above the altered lands.
Earth watches while her little children die—
The frozen wasp, the starving butterfly.
She has no tears for them, but in her heart
Knife-edged the Seven Sorrows wake and start.
xiv
MONDAY
Oh, fair of face stands Monday
At threshold of the week,
A lily in her breastknots,
A rose upon her cheek.
In kilted gown of russet
Her daily bread to seek,
She passes o'er the threshold,
Smiling, and does not speak.
At threshold of the week,
A lily in her breastknots,
A rose upon her cheek.
In kilted gown of russet
Her daily bread to seek,
She passes o'er the threshold,
Smiling, and does not speak.
She bears across her shoulder
A bough of blossomed may:
Still in her ears are ringing
Church-bells of yesterday.
She is as glad to labour
As Sunday was to pray—
But why she goes a-smiling
She will not ever say.
A bough of blossomed may:
Still in her ears are ringing
Church-bells of yesterday.
She is as glad to labour
As Sunday was to pray—
But why she goes a-smiling
She will not ever say.
xv
OCTOBER
I 'm shod with mist and crowned with fire;
I wear the opal of desire.
As grey as water is my gown,
That rustles over leaves grown brown.
I wear the opal of desire.
As grey as water is my gown,
That rustles over leaves grown brown.
Above my head the kestrels hang,
The wild geese go with whirr and clang
Of passing wings, the plovers cry
Above me in a yellow sky.
The wild geese go with whirr and clang
Of passing wings, the plovers cry
Above me in a yellow sky.
I have the Scorpion for my star,
And all fair things my kindred are,
All dreams too sweet for man to bear,
All visions builded of despair.
And all fair things my kindred are,
All dreams too sweet for man to bear,
All visions builded of despair.
I am a queen, yet govern none
That laughs or weeps beneath the sun.
I wear the opal and I wear
The desert sands amid my hair.
That laughs or weeps beneath the sun.
I wear the opal and I wear
The desert sands amid my hair.
xvi
OSIRIS
(To William Beer)
O judge us kindly, Thou that judgest rightly
All things that mortal are.
We are but men who lift our weak hands nightly
To every wandering star.
Thy sisters are the End and the Beginning;
Thine is the empty hearth,
Thine, too, the peaceful sleep for all men's winning
In kindly earth
And Thine the souls that wake from sleep to sinning,
Osiris.
All things that mortal are.
We are but men who lift our weak hands nightly
To every wandering star.
Thy sisters are the End and the Beginning;
Thine is the empty hearth,
Thine, too, the peaceful sleep for all men's winning
In kindly earth
And Thine the souls that wake from sleep to sinning,
Osiris.
We saw Thee not, Lord, in the crowded city,
And in the market-place
Heard not the falling of Thy feet. Have pity;
Let thy queen's hidden face
Be softened with Thy mercy at our crying.
Thy hand that slew painted the lotus-blossom
And sowed love's seed in the kind mother's bosom.
By Philæ where Thy mortal part is lying,
We know Thou livest and that we are dying,
Osiris!
And in the market-place
Heard not the falling of Thy feet. Have pity;
Let thy queen's hidden face
Be softened with Thy mercy at our crying.
Thy hand that slew painted the lotus-blossom
And sowed love's seed in the kind mother's bosom.
By Philæ where Thy mortal part is lying,
We know Thou livest and that we are dying,
Osiris!
Thou knowest we are weak: that we are strong
We know not, for like waves
We fall and shatter, and a bridal song
Breaks music round our graves.
We are the strings that help Thy harp to sweetness.
Alas! we only sing
Sweet things o'erthrown, the blow that ends completeness,
Artist and King!
We know not, for like waves
xvii
Breaks music round our graves.
We are the strings that help Thy harp to sweetness.
Alas! we only sing
Sweet things o'erthrown, the blow that ends completeness,
Artist and King!
Thine is the dream, and Thine the dawn that breaks it.
We can but dream and die.
Thou art the song, Thou Silence that o'ertakes it
And answers every cry.
Beside the labouring kine the neatherd trudgeth.
At noon Thou makest earth of him again.
We cry against Thee, “Who art Thou That judgeth,
Maker Who marrest men?”
We can but dream and die.
Thou art the song, Thou Silence that o'ertakes it
And answers every cry.
Beside the labouring kine the neatherd trudgeth.
At noon Thou makest earth of him again.
We cry against Thee, “Who art Thou That judgeth,
Maker Who marrest men?”
xviii
OUTLAWS
Six good years of sweetness in the greenwood shaw,
Sweetness plucked and eaten, spite of God and law;
Six good years of loving under sun and rain.
Now that law has spoken and not six hours remain,
What have we to gird at, now the end is here?
Law nor God can take from us those six years, my Dear.
Sweetness plucked and eaten, spite of God and law;
Six good years of loving under sun and rain.
Now that law has spoken and not six hours remain,
What have we to gird at, now the end is here?
Law nor God can take from us those six years, my Dear.
God indeed was kind to us, kinder than we knew,
For we found forbidden fruit sweetness through and through.
Hazel-nuts were brown for us, blackberries were sweet;
Little brooks called pleasantly to our homeless feet.
Nought we cared though on our track hound and bugle cried:
Six years long the shaw itself fought upon Love's side.
For we found forbidden fruit sweetness through and through.
Hazel-nuts were brown for us, blackberries were sweet;
Little brooks called pleasantly to our homeless feet.
Nought we cared though on our track hound and bugle cried:
Six years long the shaw itself fought upon Love's side.
Glad am I of every sun that we saw arise,
Leaves that matched your russet hair, flowers that matched your eyes:
Glad am I of every sun that we watched go down,
Frost that made the meadows white and the kingfern brown.
Glad am I of nights and days full of quick alarms,
Winds and rains that made you lie closer in my arms.
Leaves that matched your russet hair, flowers that matched your eyes:
Glad am I of every sun that we watched go down,
Frost that made the meadows white and the kingfern brown.
Glad am I of nights and days full of quick alarms,
Winds and rains that made you lie closer in my arms.
xix
Winds could never come between in the wildest weather:
Desperate days and hunted nights we found sweet together.
Rain and hail were good to us, and the leaping thunder;
Not a sign in all the sky put our arms asunder,
Desperate days and hunted nights we found sweet together.
Rain and hail were good to us, and the leaping thunder;
Not a sign in all the sky put our arms asunder,
Now our wanderings are done, and the joy we stole
We must hence to pay for it, soul by naked soul:
We who laughed at law, to-day give law its due,
But we go from law to God, dear, I and you.
We must hence to pay for it, soul by naked soul:
We who laughed at law, to-day give law its due,
But we go from law to God, dear, I and you.
xx
ST. PATRICK'S BLESSINGS
Have you heard of good St. Patrick how once he went his way
East and west through Ireland for many a night and day,
North and south through Ireland? and everywhere he trod
The world was better for his feet, and greener was the sod.
East and west through Ireland for many a night and day,
North and south through Ireland? and everywhere he trod
The world was better for his feet, and greener was the sod.
He saw the dark seals swimming in waters of the west,
He lifted up his hands to heaven and all their tribes he blessed;
He saw the wicked butcher-birds that their own comrades slew,
And none the less he blessed them, for “they know not what they do.”
He lifted up his hands to heaven and all their tribes he blessed;
He saw the wicked butcher-birds that their own comrades slew,
And none the less he blessed them, for “they know not what they do.”
He saw the green sap running in many a forest tree,
He blessed them, and he blessed the ships whose masts their stems should be;
He blessed the flower for what she was, the beauty of an hour—
“Man passes, and he leaves behind less fragrance than a flower.”
He blessed them, and he blessed the ships whose masts their stems should be;
He blessed the flower for what she was, the beauty of an hour—
“Man passes, and he leaves behind less fragrance than a flower.”
The gods that were, St. Patrick blessed, and all fair fantasies
That have made men more deep of heart, more strange to sloth and ease.
He blessed the dreams too beautiful to be made true on earth;
He blessed the mystery of death, the mystery of birth.
xxi
He blessed the dreams too beautiful to be made true on earth;
He blessed the mystery of death, the mystery of birth.
He came back to his clerics, and in his eyes they saw
The clear light of God's kindness more lovely than God's law;
And to his dying day he bore, for all to understand,
The beauty of that time when he went lonely through the land
With blessings on the lips of him and blessings in each hand.
The clear light of God's kindness more lovely than God's law;
And to his dying day he bore, for all to understand,
The beauty of that time when he went lonely through the land
With blessings on the lips of him and blessings in each hand.
xxii
THE PEOPLE OF THE DEW
If you can rokker Romany
And wish the gipsy well,
Come tramp the fern beside me
Up hill and over fell.
I'll show you where the deadwort grows,
Where witchbells cluster blue,
And where the foxgloves ring at night
For People of the Dew.
And wish the gipsy well,
Come tramp the fern beside me
Up hill and over fell.
I'll show you where the deadwort grows,
Where witchbells cluster blue,
And where the foxgloves ring at night
For People of the Dew.
They 're wayward folk and wandering
And wastrel folk as we—
They take their gear where'er it comes;
They love no walls to see.
They milk the kye and scare the birds,
A gay and idle crew—
And spae the stars like Romanies,
The People of the Dew.
And wastrel folk as we—
They take their gear where'er it comes;
They love no walls to see.
They milk the kye and scare the birds,
A gay and idle crew—
And spae the stars like Romanies,
The People of the Dew.
Like us, they come from far away,
Like us, must wander far;
Their kin is Jack o' Lanthorn
And every falling star.
They 're of the water and the wind,
And of the fixed earth, you;
But nought can stay and nought affray
The People of the Dew.
Like us, must wander far;
Their kin is Jack o' Lanthorn
And every falling star.
They 're of the water and the wind,
And of the fixed earth, you;
But nought can stay and nought affray
The People of the Dew.
xxiii
Whoever hears them singing
Will love no other song.
Whoever sees them dancing
Must rise and tramp along,
And take the highway for his path
Winter and summer through,
And follow, follow till he finds
The People of the Dew.
Will love no other song.
Whoever sees them dancing
Must rise and tramp along,
And take the highway for his path
Winter and summer through,
And follow, follow till he finds
The People of the Dew.
They're hiding in the elder tree,
And in the bracken brown,
And one will go in tattered rags,
One in a silken gown;
But you may know them by their eyes
That sorrow never knew.
They've looked on life and looked past death,
The People of the Dew.
And in the bracken brown,
And one will go in tattered rags,
One in a silken gown;
But you may know them by their eyes
That sorrow never knew.
They've looked on life and looked past death,
The People of the Dew.
xxiv
THE PIPER
The Piper comes and the Piper goes;
His pipe is carven of willow-wood.
One tune of it changes our beating blood
To water: another tune he blows
And fire's in our feet, but no man knows
If sad or glad be the Piper's mood.
His pipe is carven of willow-wood.
One tune of it changes our beating blood
To water: another tune he blows
And fire's in our feet, but no man knows
If sad or glad be the Piper's mood.
He plants sweet grapes and he gathers sloes,
Uproots the cherry, and leaves the weed,
Leans on a spear, though his hand must bleed,
And loveless ever mid lovers goes,
Though all hearths listen for him, he knows,
And covered for him is the fire's red seed.
Uproots the cherry, and leaves the weed,
Leans on a spear, though his hand must bleed,
And loveless ever mid lovers goes,
Though all hearths listen for him, he knows,
And covered for him is the fire's red seed.
The Piper's eyes are as deep as the sea,
Sea-gray, sea-green; and what man can tell
That meets his eyes if 'tis ill or well
To look and forget, or remember and be
For ever under the Piper's spell,
Swayed by him as a wind-swayed tree?
Sea-gray, sea-green; and what man can tell
That meets his eyes if 'tis ill or well
To look and forget, or remember and be
For ever under the Piper's spell,
Swayed by him as a wind-swayed tree?
Over the world the red wind blows,
Darkens the sea and veils the sun.
The Piper under the twilight goes
And shepherds our wandering wills as one:
The web of our thoughts is by him undone.
Who leads the Piper there's no one knows.
Darkens the sea and veils the sun.
The Piper under the twilight goes
And shepherds our wandering wills as one:
The web of our thoughts is by him undone.
Who leads the Piper there's no one knows.
xxv
ROBIN HOOD'S GOOD-NIGHT
Good-night, good-night, Heart's Dearest. The Hunter holds the sky;
There wakes no soul in Sherwood save Little John and I.
'Twixt thee and me the grasses grow thick and soft and green,
And falls a drift of hawthorn above thee for a screen.
'Twixt thee and me, Heart's Dearest, the grass is green.
There wakes no soul in Sherwood save Little John and I.
'Twixt thee and me the grasses grow thick and soft and green,
And falls a drift of hawthorn above thee for a screen.
'Twixt thee and me, Heart's Dearest, the grass is green.
Shall I not soon, Heart's Dearest, good-morrow to thee say,
And kiss thy lips of kisses forlorn for many a day?
Shall I bid thee good-morrow, good-night to Little John,
And lay me down beside thee to slumber sweetly on,
Nor dream of lonely Sherwood, nor Little John?
And kiss thy lips of kisses forlorn for many a day?
Shall I bid thee good-morrow, good-night to Little John,
And lay me down beside thee to slumber sweetly on,
Nor dream of lonely Sherwood, nor Little John?
Shall we go seek, Heart's Dearest, that land of afternoon,
Where lovers to their lasses pipe out a sleepy tune,
Where care may never enter, and love grow never cold,
Where Allan walks, a-harping a tune we knew of old?
Shall we not journey thither, O heart of gold?
Where lovers to their lasses pipe out a sleepy tune,
Where care may never enter, and love grow never cold,
Where Allan walks, a-harping a tune we knew of old?
Shall we not journey thither, O heart of gold?
xxvi
SEPTEMBER
I am of many moods and many shapes;
I strip the chestnut and I tread the grapes.
I strip the chestnut and I tread the grapes.
The pulse of life runs high within my veins;
My hands and lips are red with berry stains.
My hands and lips are red with berry stains.
I bid the leaves from all their dances cease
And die a golden death. And I release
And die a golden death. And I release
The spell of summer, so that all remember
Winter and death at beck of me, September.
Winter and death at beck of me, September.
xxvii
THE PASSING OF THE SHEE
And did you meet them riding down
A mile away from Galway town?
Wise childish eyes of Irish gray,
You must have seen them, too, to-day.
A mile away from Galway town?
Wise childish eyes of Irish gray,
You must have seen them, too, to-day.
And did you hear wild music blow
All down the boreen, long and low,
The tramp of ragweed-horses' feet
And Una's laughter, wild and sweet?
All down the boreen, long and low,
The tramp of ragweed-horses' feet
And Una's laughter, wild and sweet?
Oh, once I met them riding down
A hillside far from Galway town,
But not alone I walked that day
To hear the fairy pipers play.
A hillside far from Galway town,
But not alone I walked that day
To hear the fairy pipers play.
They lighted down, the kindly Shee;
They builded palace-walls for me.
They built me bower, they built me bawn,
Ganconagh, Banshee, Leprechaun.
They builded palace-walls for me.
They built me bower, they built me bawn,
Ganconagh, Banshee, Leprechaun.
They builded me a chamber fair
Roofed in with music, walled with air,
And in its garden, fair to sight,
Grew wallflowers, windflowers, brown and white.
Roofed in with music, walled with air,
And in its garden, fair to sight,
Grew wallflowers, windflowers, brown and white.
xxviii
Bouchaleen bwee, if you should see
One riding with the happy Shee,
One with blue eyes and yellow hair,
Less light of heart than many there,
One riding with the happy Shee,
One with blue eyes and yellow hair,
Less light of heart than many there,
Ah! tell him that I'm seeking still
Our fairy hold by fairy hill,
Following the fairy pipes that play
Over the hills and far away.
Our fairy hold by fairy hill,
Following the fairy pipes that play
Over the hills and far away.
xxix
SHEEP IN A STORM
The herons from the marsh have gone,
Beholding how the dark draws on.
The beech-tree yonder on the hill,
Where silly sheep are feeding still,
'Twixt light and lightning shuddering stands,
A landmark between alien lands—
Each leaf aghast in the hot breath
That whispers to all trees of death.
Beholding how the dark draws on.
The beech-tree yonder on the hill,
Where silly sheep are feeding still,
'Twixt light and lightning shuddering stands,
A landmark between alien lands—
Each leaf aghast in the hot breath
That whispers to all trees of death.
The sheep feed stolidly, nor know
How near their heads the lightnings go;
The old tower not more careless stands
Of human wrath and human hands
Than these meek things that without fear
The lightnings see, the thunders hear,
Nor cease from feeding to and fro.
How near their heads the lightnings go;
The old tower not more careless stands
Of human wrath and human hands
Than these meek things that without fear
The lightnings see, the thunders hear,
Nor cease from feeding to and fro.
xxx
THE SHEPHERD OF THE SEA.
I am a mighty shepherd, and many are my flocks;
I lead them, I feed them among the weedy rocks;
My shepherd's crook is fashioned out of a Norway pine,
And there's no sheep-dog in the world will herd these flocks of mine.
I lead them, I feed them among the weedy rocks;
My shepherd's crook is fashioned out of a Norway pine,
And there's no sheep-dog in the world will herd these flocks of mine.
My fold is wide, and day and night the walls shift of my fold.
No upland, no lowland, my lambing ewes withhold
From the cry of their shepherd, the beckoning of his hand;
For my own desert places they leave the pasture-land.
No upland, no lowland, my lambing ewes withhold
From the cry of their shepherd, the beckoning of his hand;
For my own desert places they leave the pasture-land.
With wild white fleeces surging about me to my knee,
I go about my herding, the Shepherd of the Sea;
I call to the rock-pastures the white sheep of the waves,
For they but find their grazing where sailors find their graves.
I go about my herding, the Shepherd of the Sea;
I call to the rock-pastures the white sheep of the waves,
For they but find their grazing where sailors find their graves.
I am a mighty shepherd, and mighty flocks have I;
I lead them, I feed them while stars are in the sky;
And when the moon is waning on sheltered shore and lee,
I rest not nor slumber, the Shepherd of the Sea.
I lead them, I feed them while stars are in the sky;
And when the moon is waning on sheltered shore and lee,
I rest not nor slumber, the Shepherd of the Sea.
xxxi
SILK OF THE KINE. I
(To Caroline Augusta Hopper)
Silk of the kine, do not those great waves grow
Weary of lashing granite shores of thine,
Shores that decay, and death will never know,
Silk of the kine?
Weary of lashing granite shores of thine,
Shores that decay, and death will never know,
Silk of the kine?
Are not thy soft eyes tired of shade and shine,
And thy kind lips a-weary, drinking so,
For many years a black and bitter wine?
Take comfort, Gra Machree: the years are slow,
Yet bring the day (tho' not for eyes of mine)
When thou shalt rise up crowned above thy foe,
Silk of the kine!
And thy kind lips a-weary, drinking so,
For many years a black and bitter wine?
Take comfort, Gra Machree: the years are slow,
Yet bring the day (tho' not for eyes of mine)
When thou shalt rise up crowned above thy foe,
Silk of the kine!
xxxii
SILK OF THE KINE. II
(To Coulson Kernahan)
Silk o' the kine, it's long you've strayed away
Into the meadows thro' the twilight gray,
And though we stand and call when night is near
And draws the weary cattle homeward here,
You never come, nor any pishogue may
Bring you to us at dawning o' the day,
Silk o' the Kine.
Into the meadows thro' the twilight gray,
And though we stand and call when night is near
And draws the weary cattle homeward here,
You never come, nor any pishogue may
Bring you to us at dawning o' the day,
Silk o' the Kine.
Mannanan drives his cattle from the sea
At sundown, but no heart to watch have we
For thinking on our own that's strayed so far
Beyond the shining of the hunter's star,
For thinking on you and your silk coat fine,
Silk o' the Kine!
At sundown, but no heart to watch have we
For thinking on our own that's strayed so far
Beyond the shining of the hunter's star,
For thinking on you and your silk coat fine,
Silk o' the Kine!
We have no heart to heed the thrush's song,
The hound's deep note, the blackbird's fluting long
(The song Fionn loved at Derrycarn of streams).
Our hearts are wandering with you in our dreams,
Nor can we turn our sorrow into song.
My grief, my grief! we've missed you over-long,
Silk o' the Kine.
The hound's deep note, the blackbird's fluting long
(The song Fionn loved at Derrycarn of streams).
Our hearts are wandering with you in our dreams,
Nor can we turn our sorrow into song.
My grief, my grief! we've missed you over-long,
Silk o' the Kine.
xxxiii
SPRING SONG
The Spring is at the door;
She bears a golden store,
Her maund with yellow daffodils runneth o'er.
She bears a golden store,
Her maund with yellow daffodils runneth o'er.
Her rosy feet are bare,
The wind is in her hair,
And O her eyes are April eyes, very fair.
The wind is in her hair,
And O her eyes are April eyes, very fair.
After her footsteps follow
The mullein and the mallow;
She scatters golden powder on the sallow.
The mullein and the mallow;
She scatters golden powder on the sallow.
She brings the crocus white
And golden aconite:
She brings desire and doubting and delight.
And golden aconite:
She brings desire and doubting and delight.
xxxiv
THE STRANGERS
They bought her, not with Irish knife,
But with their Danish gold:
They brought her from her father's hall,
From faces kind to faces cold
In her new lord's hold.
They laid strange hands on her joyous life,
And bade the bird in her breast to sing
An altered song with a folded wing;
And the Irish maid was a Danish wife
In the Strangers' Forts (and she heard, she heard
All night the cry of an alien bird
That would not sing for the Strangers
Who dwelt in Donegal).
But with their Danish gold:
They brought her from her father's hall,
From faces kind to faces cold
In her new lord's hold.
They laid strange hands on her joyous life,
And bade the bird in her breast to sing
An altered song with a folded wing;
And the Irish maid was a Danish wife
In the Strangers' Forts (and she heard, she heard
All night the cry of an alien bird
That would not sing for the Strangers
Who dwelt in Donegal).
They took her over running water,
And loosed our kindly chain;
And Danish son and Danish daughter
She bare unto her Dane.
She sang their songs, and in the singing
Her childish tunes forgot,
And she remembered not
The kindlier hearts that years were bringing
Joy and pain
That were none of hers, though deep the gladness
And keen the pain;
For she knew no grief but the near-hand sadness
That vexed the Dane,
And her joy was the joy of an outland lord
And gay she sat at the outland board
In the highest hall.
(But it would not sing for a Danish call,
The bird in her breast that must make its nest
In the Strangers' Forts with the Strangers
That dwelt in Donegal.)
And loosed our kindly chain;
And Danish son and Danish daughter
She bare unto her Dane.
She sang their songs, and in the singing
Her childish tunes forgot,
And she remembered not
The kindlier hearts that years were bringing
Joy and pain
That were none of hers, though deep the gladness
And keen the pain;
xxxv
That vexed the Dane,
And her joy was the joy of an outland lord
And gay she sat at the outland board
In the highest hall.
(But it would not sing for a Danish call,
The bird in her breast that must make its nest
In the Strangers' Forts with the Strangers
That dwelt in Donegal.)
She bore him three fair daughters,
And one tall son, whose name
The Danish minstrels lifted up,
Even as one lifts a golden cup
Filled to the lips with fame.
Then over the shadowy waters
She saw Hy-Brasail gleam,
And she laid her down on her carven bed,
Most white and fair and sweet to see
As a dream remembered piteously
When we grow too old to dream;
And “Being but dead,”
She said, “I bid you carry me
Like a maiden back to my own country,
Not like a wife long wed.
Take off my girdle and jewels all,
My shining keys and my Irish knife:
Bid my maids go at my daughters' call,
And my heathen thrall
May serve my son, for my toils are done,
And no other care
I have save this, that ye bear me back
On the homeward track,
With a strait blue gown for my only wear,
With folded fingers and unbound hair
As I was ne'er a wife;
For I cannot sleep, being dead,
In the Strangers' Forts, with the Strangers
That dwell in Donegal.”
(And dead she lay, and above her bed
A bird's voice cried, till the light o'erhead
Grew dark to the evenfall,
And its cry was the cry of the Strangers
That dwelt in Donegal.)
And one tall son, whose name
The Danish minstrels lifted up,
Even as one lifts a golden cup
Filled to the lips with fame.
Then over the shadowy waters
She saw Hy-Brasail gleam,
And she laid her down on her carven bed,
Most white and fair and sweet to see
As a dream remembered piteously
When we grow too old to dream;
And “Being but dead,”
She said, “I bid you carry me
Like a maiden back to my own country,
Not like a wife long wed.
Take off my girdle and jewels all,
xxxvi
Bid my maids go at my daughters' call,
And my heathen thrall
May serve my son, for my toils are done,
And no other care
I have save this, that ye bear me back
On the homeward track,
With a strait blue gown for my only wear,
With folded fingers and unbound hair
As I was ne'er a wife;
For I cannot sleep, being dead,
In the Strangers' Forts, with the Strangers
That dwell in Donegal.”
(And dead she lay, and above her bed
A bird's voice cried, till the light o'erhead
Grew dark to the evenfall,
And its cry was the cry of the Strangers
That dwelt in Donegal.)
Now, her alien kin, and her alien mate,
We held deep in hate—
We that were once her own,
We from whose griefs her heart had grown,
And whose joys, mavrone,
Passed by her door (and she had not known),
We that by cold hearths sat alone
When her thread was shorn
By envious hands of a Danish Norn.
And mavrone, mavrone, but we liked it ill
That they did her dying will
And bore her homeward as she had said
With empty hands and unveiled head
Like a maiden still;
And we hated more when they raised no wail
Above her cairn,
Standing dumb and stern,
Drinking “God-speed” in her burial-ale
While our women shrieked and with faces pale
Stood and cursed our mountain kerne.
And now we are sad, for our hate is shed
Abroad on the wings of the wind, and dead
As Eivir, as Eivir. And home to his hall
Scathlessly goes the Dane.
And the cock we reared, the cock that's red,
Crows not on his castle-wall.
But the bird, the bird we loved best of all,
It sits and sings in his lonely hall.
Mavrone! for her bosom-bird
And its singing voice we have not heard
O'er her grave in the Holy Isle,
Nor yet in the dusk o'er her maiden bed,
In the hold where she was born,
Sings it by night or morn.
But it sings most sweet and clear
For her Danish kin to hear,
And its song is sad and its song is glad
Like a sigh that grows to a smile;
For she loved us both, but death turns love cold,
And they bring us back our dead to hold,
So they loved her best, the Strangers
That dwell in Donegal.)
We held deep in hate—
We that were once her own,
We from whose griefs her heart had grown,
And whose joys, mavrone,
Passed by her door (and she had not known),
We that by cold hearths sat alone
xxxvii
By envious hands of a Danish Norn.
And mavrone, mavrone, but we liked it ill
That they did her dying will
And bore her homeward as she had said
With empty hands and unveiled head
Like a maiden still;
And we hated more when they raised no wail
Above her cairn,
Standing dumb and stern,
Drinking “God-speed” in her burial-ale
While our women shrieked and with faces pale
Stood and cursed our mountain kerne.
And now we are sad, for our hate is shed
Abroad on the wings of the wind, and dead
As Eivir, as Eivir. And home to his hall
Scathlessly goes the Dane.
And the cock we reared, the cock that's red,
Crows not on his castle-wall.
But the bird, the bird we loved best of all,
It sits and sings in his lonely hall.
Mavrone! for her bosom-bird
And its singing voice we have not heard
O'er her grave in the Holy Isle,
Nor yet in the dusk o'er her maiden bed,
In the hold where she was born,
xxxviii
But it sings most sweet and clear
For her Danish kin to hear,
And its song is sad and its song is glad
Like a sigh that grows to a smile;
For she loved us both, but death turns love cold,
And they bring us back our dead to hold,
So they loved her best, the Strangers
That dwell in Donegal.)
xxxix
THE SPIRIT OF SUMMER
My cap is made of thistledown;Woven of green grasses is my gown.
My veil is made of gossamer.
Butterflies fan me with their wings,
And many shy and timid things,
Covered in feathers or in fur,
Seek me for safety when the storm
Blows up; the hare forsakes her form
And in my shadow lieth warm.
The squirrel has no thought of fear,
He perches on my shoulder here
And cracks his nuts; and shrew-mice come
To do me suit and service dumb.
Once at Heaven's gate I sat all day
And sang and harped and would not cease.
I was too happy to know peace;
But now I walk a better way.
Now on the good green earth I dwell
And have sweet humble tasks to do,
To brim the foxglove's spotted bell
With honey, and to fill with dew
The honeysuckle's drinking horn,
Creamy and crimson. Every morn
I bid the buttercups arise
And open wide their golden eyes,
xl
On labouring lives. 'Tis mine to keep
Earth's little children safe and sound
And all the woodland holy ground.
xli
THE SUNFLOWER
The sunflower bows upon her breastHer golden head, and goes to rest
Forgetting all the days that were
When she was young and proud and fair
And in the glowing August air
Bees came and sought and found her sweet.
Now earth is cold about her feet,
And wasps forsake her, and the sun
No longer seeks her for the one
Flower in his splendid image made.
Her beauty's done, her farewell said.
Her large leaves fold in weary wise,
And heavy are her great brown eyes.
The living rubies that would run
Across her discs that mocked the sun—
The ladybirds—sleep everyone.
The great stalk stoops towards the earth
Where all dreams end, whence all have birth.
The hive-bee has forgotten quite
How once he loved her, for the night
Has come wherein no bee can spy
Sweet in this flower dead and dry.
xlii
SWORD AND FIRE
It was welded in fire of Eve's own kindling, and tempered in tears that Lilith wept,
Fire that was tended of Dhoul and Druid and Gods that woke while the others slept;
And the fire was hallowed with prayers and sighing of saints that took it for sleeping-place,
With life unborn and with life undying, with prayers unanswered and granted grace.
Fire that was tended of Dhoul and Druid and Gods that woke while the others slept;
And the fire was hallowed with prayers and sighing of saints that took it for sleeping-place,
With life unborn and with life undying, with prayers unanswered and granted grace.
The fire was watched of the dark Fomoroh, from wistful twilight to windy dawn,
De Dananns fed it with quicken-branches, the wild Shee came from their dancing lawn!
They sang wild songs to the red fire 's flashing; they sang to the red fire 's falling glow,
And ours are the fire and the sword it welded, but free for us now the wild songs go.
De Dananns fed it with quicken-branches, the wild Shee came from their dancing lawn!
They sang wild songs to the red fire 's flashing; they sang to the red fire 's falling glow,
And ours are the fire and the sword it welded, but free for us now the wild songs go.
The fire 's forlorn of the wayward singing, but rich it kindles and richer now
By crimson stones that the dark Fomoroh stripped for its pleasure from breast and brow.
It called for wood and we brought it quicken; it cried for dew and we brought it blood;
We sent pale colleens its flame to strengthen, to tread the deeps of its crimson flood.
By crimson stones that the dark Fomoroh stripped for its pleasure from breast and brow.
It called for wood and we brought it quicken; it cried for dew and we brought it blood;
We sent pale colleens its flame to strengthen, to tread the deeps of its crimson flood.
xliii
We gave it blood and we gave it blossoms, gold coins and amber and golden hair,
King's daughters fed with their flower its hunger, and the sons of kings were its playthings fair.
Its eager arms for a Danann princess reached out not long in a vain desire;
It has given the sword to be our servant, and we are the servants of the fire.
King's daughters fed with their flower its hunger, and the sons of kings were its playthings fair.
Its eager arms for a Danann princess reached out not long in a vain desire;
It has given the sword to be our servant, and we are the servants of the fire.
xliv
UNA OF THE WEST
(To Caroline Augusta Hopper)
It's “Una, Una, Una!”
The birds cry after me,
When I go back at sunset
Into my own country.
With “Una, Una, Una,”
They will not let me be.
The birds cry after me,
When I go back at sunset
Into my own country.
With “Una, Una, Una,”
They will not let me be.
With Druid leaves they crowned me
The mistress of the Shee,
East wind and west they gave me,
For hounds to follow me.
Mine are the yellow ragweeds,
And mine the quicken tree.
The mistress of the Shee,
East wind and west they gave me,
For hounds to follow me.
Mine are the yellow ragweeds,
And mine the quicken tree.
I teach the dreaming colleen
How she her love may win:
I wake old harps from silence
To wail for days of Fionn:
I make the long grass greener
That folds Saint Idé in.
How she her love may win:
I wake old harps from silence
To wail for days of Fionn:
I make the long grass greener
That folds Saint Idé in.
It's “Una, Una, Una,”
Birds sing and will not stay;
And not a plover whistles
Or lark dare greet the day
Until I come from westward
And bid the night away.
Birds sing and will not stay;
xlv
Or lark dare greet the day
Until I come from westward
And bid the night away.
VAGRANTS
And first the Night, lost in her wild black hair,
Came crooning down the valleys to Kenmare,
Crooning an old song lost the raths amid,
Far fallen from love and grace,
Since days when first the darkness Oscar hid
And covered Niam's face:
Night, moving slowly, lost in visions sweet
And all the cabins listening for her feet.
Came crooning down the valleys to Kenmare,
Crooning an old song lost the raths amid,
Far fallen from love and grace,
Since days when first the darkness Oscar hid
And covered Niam's face:
Night, moving slowly, lost in visions sweet
And all the cabins listening for her feet.
And after her came Dawn,
As swift and wild and shy as any fawn.
A glimmer of grey eyes, and moonlit hair,
A flutter in the air—
A cry of wakening birds, that hardly may
Believe so near the day:
Her feet went by like shadows; from her track
You saw the dreams draw back.
As swift and wild and shy as any fawn.
A glimmer of grey eyes, and moonlit hair,
A flutter in the air—
A cry of wakening birds, that hardly may
Believe so near the day:
Her feet went by like shadows; from her track
You saw the dreams draw back.
Then Day came, woman grown, and gravely sweet,
With steady eyes and undelaying feet:
She had no time for dreams, nor yet for song,
For all day long
Barefooted, 'mid the children born of her,
She worked among the fields a harvester.
With steady eyes and undelaying feet:
She had no time for dreams, nor yet for song,
For all day long
Barefooted, 'mid the children born of her,
She worked among the fields a harvester.
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