 | Dirge for Aoine and other poems |  |
v
THE WAITING WIDOW AND OTHER POEMS
vii
THE WAITING WIDOW
In the dark o' the day
He shall come to my door,
He that died far away
From the Irish shore.
I'll make to him the bed,
And tire my widowed head,
When he comes from the dead
In the dark o' the day.
He shall come to my door,
He that died far away
From the Irish shore.
I'll make to him the bed,
And tire my widowed head,
When he comes from the dead
In the dark o' the day.
My hands shall drop with myrrh
On door-latch and handle;
My sleeping fire I'll stir
And quench my watchful candle.
I shall be fair and young,
And in my mouth a song.
Oh, 'tis long, long, long,
Till the dark o' the day.
On door-latch and handle;
My sleeping fire I'll stir
And quench my watchful candle.
I shall be fair and young,
And in my mouth a song.
Oh, 'tis long, long, long,
Till the dark o' the day.
In the dark o' the day
He will come to my door.
No greeting will he say,
But cross my threshold o'er.
My groping hands he'll take;
My heart, long like to break,
With full delight he'll slake
In the dark o' the day.
He will come to my door.
No greeting will he say,
But cross my threshold o'er.
My groping hands he'll take;
My heart, long like to break,
With full delight he'll slake
In the dark o' the day.
viii
In the dark o' the day
We shall lie down to sleep;
I will not see the gray
Dawn through the window creep.
I'll hold him to my breast
So close, so dearly pressed,
My life shall be his guest
In the dark o' the day.
We shall lie down to sleep;
I will not see the gray
Dawn through the window creep.
I'll hold him to my breast
So close, so dearly pressed,
My life shall be his guest
In the dark o' the day.
My life shall be his guest,
And mine his death shall be,
And lying on his breast
Death shall come sweet to me.
But now I dare not die
Because November's nigh,
And my dear may yet come by
In the dark o' the day.
And mine his death shall be,
And lying on his breast
Death shall come sweet to me.
But now I dare not die
Because November's nigh,
And my dear may yet come by
In the dark o' the day.
ix
WINDS
The wind came crying from the East,
And blew the churchyard-grass aside
As if to read forgotten names.
It tossed the very altar-flames,
And like a mourning woman cried
Whose sorrow will not be denied;
Then in the sea-caves sank and ceased.
And blew the churchyard-grass aside
As if to read forgotten names.
It tossed the very altar-flames,
And like a mourning woman cried
Whose sorrow will not be denied;
Then in the sea-caves sank and ceased.
The wind came singing from the West
And through the formal gardens ranged,
And suddenly they all were changed.
He entered in the rose's breast,
Like any bee, and, murmuring there,
Sent a new music through the air:
Then, in mid-sweetness, fell to rest.
And through the formal gardens ranged,
And suddenly they all were changed.
He entered in the rose's breast,
Like any bee, and, murmuring there,
Sent a new music through the air:
Then, in mid-sweetness, fell to rest.
The wind came shouting from the North
As some armed warrior might come forth
Eager to slay, or to be slain.
He tore the last leaves from the tree
And sped them shuddering o'er the plain;
He called to heel the angry sea,
And lashed it with his scourge of rain.
As some armed warrior might come forth
Eager to slay, or to be slain.
He tore the last leaves from the tree
And sped them shuddering o'er the plain;
He called to heel the angry sea,
And lashed it with his scourge of rain.
The wind came sighing from the South,
His hair a cloud, a rose his mouth;
His eyes beneath the level brows
Were shadowy as forest boughs;
His voice was like a song one hears
In childhood, lost for many years,
Heard first with laughter, last with tears.
His hair a cloud, a rose his mouth;
x
Were shadowy as forest boughs;
His voice was like a song one hears
In childhood, lost for many years,
Heard first with laughter, last with tears.
xi
WIND-SONG
Blow, blow, winds blow, braggart winds and merry—
Blow down the almond snow, toss the flowering cherry.
Daffodils ablow, arow, mingle in their dances;
Shake the purple flags that grow tall amid their lances;
Blow, O winds blow, strip the winter-berry!
Blow down the almond snow, toss the flowering cherry.
Daffodils ablow, arow, mingle in their dances;
Shake the purple flags that grow tall amid their lances;
Blow, O winds blow, strip the winter-berry!
Far and near, push and peer; here's a nest a-growing.
Winds merry, winds dear, hush here your blowing!
Trouble not the mother-wren when she comes and goes,
Dreaming of the wings and songs that her secret knows.
Soft here, winds dear, where the nests are showing.
Winds merry, winds dear, hush here your blowing!
Trouble not the mother-wren when she comes and goes,
Dreaming of the wings and songs that her secret knows.
Soft here, winds dear, where the nests are showing.
Blow, blow loud and low, wild winds and merry,
Hurtling down upon our heads bring a snow of cherry.
Bring the yellow kingcups out in the flowerless places;
Set the naked woods aflush with the wind-flowers' faces.
Make the old briar run with sap ready for the berry;
Bring the swallows, April follows, wild winds and merry.
Hurtling down upon our heads bring a snow of cherry.
Bring the yellow kingcups out in the flowerless places;
Set the naked woods aflush with the wind-flowers' faces.
Make the old briar run with sap ready for the berry;
Bring the swallows, April follows, wild winds and merry.
xii
THE WIND AMONG THE REEDS
(To Caroline Augusta Hopper)
Mavrone, Mavrone! the wind among the reeds.
It calls and cries, and will not let me be;
And all its cry is of forgotten deeds
When men were loved of all the Daoine-sidhe.
It calls and cries, and will not let me be;
And all its cry is of forgotten deeds
When men were loved of all the Daoine-sidhe.
O Shee that have forgotten how to love,
And Shee that have forgotten how to hate,
Asleep 'neath quicken boughs that no winds move,
Come back to us ere yet it be too late.
And Shee that have forgotten how to hate,
Asleep 'neath quicken boughs that no winds move,
Come back to us ere yet it be too late.
Pipe to us once again, lest we forget
What piping means, till all the Silver Spears
Be wild with gusty music, such as met
Carolan once, amid the dusty years.
What piping means, till all the Silver Spears
Be wild with gusty music, such as met
Carolan once, amid the dusty years.
Dance in your rings again: the yellow weeds
You used to ride so far, mount as of old;
Play hide and seek with winds among the reeds,
And pay your scores again with fairy gold.
You used to ride so far, mount as of old;
Play hide and seek with winds among the reeds,
And pay your scores again with fairy gold.
xiii
THE EAST WIND
The white wind of the South it blows from far away,
The black wind of the North from the gates of Hell is driven,
The gray wind of the West, maybe she blows from Heaven,
But the red wind, the East wind's the wind of the judgment day.
The black wind of the North from the gates of Hell is driven,
The gray wind of the West, maybe she blows from Heaven,
But the red wind, the East wind's the wind of the judgment day.
The white wind and the gray wind they bring the kindly rain,
The black wind and the gray wind they carry storm and snow;
But when the East wind's blowing, the sleeping dead they know
By the breath upon their feet that 'tis time to rise again.
The black wind and the gray wind they carry storm and snow;
But when the East wind's blowing, the sleeping dead they know
By the breath upon their feet that 'tis time to rise again.
No ghost can wake from slumber when the North and West winds blow.
The dead lie still and stir not, in their yellowing cerecloths bound;
But when the East wind rustles the dead leaves above ground,
It is the dead men's holiday, and back to earth they go.
The dead lie still and stir not, in their yellowing cerecloths bound;
But when the East wind rustles the dead leaves above ground,
It is the dead men's holiday, and back to earth they go.
xiv
They open close-sealed chambers, and they rustle up the stairs;
They enter hearts that know them and hearts that have forgot:
They leave beside love's rosemary tear-wet forget-me-not,
For the East's the wind of memory, and nothing else is theirs.
They enter hearts that know them and hearts that have forgot:
They leave beside love's rosemary tear-wet forget-me-not,
For the East's the wind of memory, and nothing else is theirs.
xv
WEED-FIRES
Now every little garden holds a haze
That tells of longer nights and shorter days:
Handfuls of weeds and outcast garden-folk
Yield up their lives and pass away in smoke.
The leaves of dandelions, deeply notched,
Burn with the thistle's purple plumes, unwatched
Of any eyes that loved them yesterday,
And flare in sullen fumes, and pass away.
That tells of longer nights and shorter days:
Handfuls of weeds and outcast garden-folk
Yield up their lives and pass away in smoke.
The leaves of dandelions, deeply notched,
Burn with the thistle's purple plumes, unwatched
Of any eyes that loved them yesterday,
And flare in sullen fumes, and pass away.
The small fires whimper softly as they burn;
They murmur at the hand that will not turn
Back on the dial and bring to them again
June's turquoise skies or April's diamond rain.
“Alas,” the weeds are crying as they smoulder,
“We are grown wiser with our growing older;
We know what summer is—but ah! we buy
Knowledge too dear; we know because we die.”
They murmur at the hand that will not turn
Back on the dial and bring to them again
June's turquoise skies or April's diamond rain.
“Alas,” the weeds are crying as they smoulder,
“We are grown wiser with our growing older;
We know what summer is—but ah! we buy
Knowledge too dear; we know because we die.”
xvi
A DEVONSHIRE SONG
Rich is the red earth country, and fair beneath the sun
Her orchards in their whiteness show when April waters run;
Fair show they in their autumn green when red their apples glow,
And yet a lovelier country is that I'm wisht to know.
Her orchards in their whiteness show when April waters run;
Fair show they in their autumn green when red their apples glow,
And yet a lovelier country is that I'm wisht to know.
The country has no borders, the country has no name;
Its people are as homeless as is a marish-flame;
But kind they are and beautiful, and in their golden eyes
Their lovers see the gleam that drew out Eve from Paradise.
Its people are as homeless as is a marish-flame;
But kind they are and beautiful, and in their golden eyes
Their lovers see the gleam that drew out Eve from Paradise.
O happy Pixy-people that dance and pass away,
That hope not for to-morrow nor grieve for yesterday,
O happy Pixy-people, would that I went with you
The way the red leaves travel when the harvest moon is new.
That hope not for to-morrow nor grieve for yesterday,
O happy Pixy-people, would that I went with you
The way the red leaves travel when the harvest moon is new.
You fear no blight in summer that kills the growing corn;
Your hearts have never sunk to see the sun rise red at morn.
The brown spate in the river, the drowned face in the Dart,
Have never dimmed a Pixy's eye or hurt a Pixy's heart.
Your hearts have never sunk to see the sun rise red at morn.
The brown spate in the river, the drowned face in the Dart,
Have never dimmed a Pixy's eye or hurt a Pixy's heart.
xvii
But I have seen the river rise and draw my lover down
And since the Dart has shrunken too low to let me drown
And be at peace beside him, why I would lose this soul
That makes the daylight dusk to me, since last Dart took her toll.
And since the Dart has shrunken too low to let me drown
And be at peace beside him, why I would lose this soul
That makes the daylight dusk to me, since last Dart took her toll.
Oh Pixies, take this heavy soul and make me light as you,
I care not though one day I pass away like drying dew—
I only care to sleep no more, to dream no more, but go
Far from the red earth country and the cruel streams I know.
I care not though one day I pass away like drying dew—
I only care to sleep no more, to dream no more, but go
Far from the red earth country and the cruel streams I know.
xviii
IN KEW GARDENS
The lake is blue, the lake is gray.
Around the lake tall flag-leaves sway
And swither in the gentle wind.
The sun is strong enough to blind
Weak eyes that love a shaded room.
The tulips break in scarlet bloom.
Blood-red, wine-red, the peonies stand
Like purpled flames on either hand.
Around the lake tall flag-leaves sway
And swither in the gentle wind.
The sun is strong enough to blind
Weak eyes that love a shaded room.
The tulips break in scarlet bloom.
Blood-red, wine-red, the peonies stand
Like purpled flames on either hand.
The peacocks spread their splendid fans
And flaunt before the pelicans.
Wisht doves in yonder elm-trees try
To mock the cuckoo's wandering cry
With drawling voices sad and soft,
Half lost among the leaves aloft.
The white moth with the brown moth flies
In shadowy silken companies.
And flaunt before the pelicans.
Wisht doves in yonder elm-trees try
To mock the cuckoo's wandering cry
With drawling voices sad and soft,
Half lost among the leaves aloft.
The white moth with the brown moth flies
In shadowy silken companies.
Blue into amber fades away;
The furthest trees are hazy gray;
The purple clouds grow tender green;
The rosy clouds mass soft between.
The wild-fowl by the water-side
Cry as if man's first day had died
And Adam, naked, stood alone
'Neath the first darkness he had known.
The furthest trees are hazy gray;
The purple clouds grow tender green;
The rosy clouds mass soft between.
The wild-fowl by the water-side
Cry as if man's first day had died
And Adam, naked, stood alone
'Neath the first darkness he had known.
xix
PHÆACIA
(To W. H. Chesson)
To the Phæacian Islands let us go,
Let us link hands and go,
And bid farewell to all the jealous Gods
While almond-flowers muffle up their rods.
Let us link hands and go,
And bid farewell to all the jealous Gods
While almond-flowers muffle up their rods.
The Gods who give
Long life to such as have no heart to live
And shed swift death upon beloved heads,
The Gods who give us amaranth and moly
And plant our battle-fields with parsley beds,
The Gods who shame the proud and scorn the lowly,
This also have they given,
A little space wherein dull earth turns heaven;
But all the while Fate's wheel, beset with eyes,
Turns breaking butterflies.
Let us rise up and go
To the Phæacian Islands where they lie
Gray, 'neath a grayer sky,
“At the light's limit,” where the light is low
And no winds blow.
Long life to such as have no heart to live
And shed swift death upon beloved heads,
The Gods who give us amaranth and moly
And plant our battle-fields with parsley beds,
The Gods who shame the proud and scorn the lowly,
This also have they given,
A little space wherein dull earth turns heaven;
But all the while Fate's wheel, beset with eyes,
Turns breaking butterflies.
Let us rise up and go
To the Phæacian Islands where they lie
Gray, 'neath a grayer sky,
“At the light's limit,” where the light is low
And no winds blow.
For here the autumn air is sharp with dreams
Of snow to come,
And on leaf-muffled roads our feet fall dumb
By silent streams.
Of snow to come,
And on leaf-muffled roads our feet fall dumb
By silent streams.
xx
After the summer let us turn and go
Beyond the deathly snow,
Beyond the breath of any winter wind.
The hands that hold us back are all unkind.
(Ah, hands unkind
That fain would hold us when we fain would go
To dimmer, dearer lands than these we know
Even as we know the faces of our kin!)
The gates of ivory that we would win
Stand open and we fain would enter in.
To the light's limit where the light is low,
Sweet, shall we go?
Beyond the deathly snow,
Beyond the breath of any winter wind.
The hands that hold us back are all unkind.
(Ah, hands unkind
That fain would hold us when we fain would go
To dimmer, dearer lands than these we know
Even as we know the faces of our kin!)
The gates of ivory that we would win
Stand open and we fain would enter in.
To the light's limit where the light is low,
Sweet, shall we go?
There, neither summer burns, nor winter breathes
Death's message to the roses, withering;
For the Phæacians know perpetual spring;
No tempest ever works their meadows wrong.
Their year 's one April, always wavering
'Twixt sun and rain;
Harvest is naught to them the whole year long.
But always these are theirs,
The doubtful pleasure that is half a pain,
The ghost of sorrow that is almost fain,
So old it is, and Hope that turns again
Before she takes farewell
Of fields that she has sown with wheat and tares.
Death's message to the roses, withering;
For the Phæacians know perpetual spring;
No tempest ever works their meadows wrong.
Their year 's one April, always wavering
'Twixt sun and rain;
Harvest is naught to them the whole year long.
But always these are theirs,
The doubtful pleasure that is half a pain,
The ghost of sorrow that is almost fain,
So old it is, and Hope that turns again
Before she takes farewell
Of fields that she has sown with wheat and tares.
xxi
Here in this drowsy land
Joy is not known, and Grief takes Sleep by hand,
And by the shadowy streams
White poppies nodding grow, fulfilled of dreams.
Here in green leaves her light the lily sheathes,
And here the rose is always in the bud,
The silver brook is never vexed with flood
Or thinned with drought in slipping through the dry
And sunburnt rushes seaward in July.
Joy is not known, and Grief takes Sleep by hand,
And by the shadowy streams
White poppies nodding grow, fulfilled of dreams.
Here in green leaves her light the lily sheathes,
And here the rose is always in the bud,
The silver brook is never vexed with flood
Or thinned with drought in slipping through the dry
And sunburnt rushes seaward in July.
Let us go hence and find those islands fair,
Go hence and take no care
For Lydian flutes that falter far away.
Let us go hence and take no thought for all
The Linus-songs whose long lamentings fall
Like rain, like rain round our departing feet.
These songs are oversweet
And we are weary of the homespun day,
And we are sick for shadows: let's away,
Link hands and let us go, ere we grow old . . .
Your hand is cold;
Loose hands and let us go, ere we grow old,
To mistier meadows and a softer sky,
There in Phæacia to live and die.
Go hence and take no care
For Lydian flutes that falter far away.
Let us go hence and take no thought for all
The Linus-songs whose long lamentings fall
Like rain, like rain round our departing feet.
These songs are oversweet
And we are weary of the homespun day,
And we are sick for shadows: let's away,
Link hands and let us go, ere we grow old . . .
Your hand is cold;
Loose hands and let us go, ere we grow old,
To mistier meadows and a softer sky,
There in Phæacia to live and die.
Nay, but not die, alas! no mortal dies
Who eats of lotus 'neath Phæacian skies.
Who finds life's tune too long
May never break the song
Though to each note the sick heart rings untrue.
But there grow magic flowers wherewith to twine
A garland half divine!
Eyebright and bitter rue,
Mandragore and moly,
Hyacinth sweet as sin and lily holy,
Pale iris growing where the stream winds slowly
Round the smooth shoulders of untrodden hills,
White meadowsweet and yellow daffodils.
Shall we go there, dear heart, our lives to crown?
For all our garlands here are late leaves brown
And bitter rue.
Shall we go there and lay our burdens down
And drink of youth anew?
Shall we go there where no one dreams of death . . .
Or love or faith?
Who eats of lotus 'neath Phæacian skies.
xxii
May never break the song
Though to each note the sick heart rings untrue.
But there grow magic flowers wherewith to twine
A garland half divine!
Eyebright and bitter rue,
Mandragore and moly,
Hyacinth sweet as sin and lily holy,
Pale iris growing where the stream winds slowly
Round the smooth shoulders of untrodden hills,
White meadowsweet and yellow daffodils.
Shall we go there, dear heart, our lives to crown?
For all our garlands here are late leaves brown
And bitter rue.
Shall we go there and lay our burdens down
And drink of youth anew?
Shall we go there where no one dreams of death . . .
Or love or faith?
Shall we go there, or shall we rather stay
Here, in the common day,
And watch Love's eyes grow dim, Love's head turn gray?
We will let be those isles of gramarye
And magic flowers let be,
To pluck our earthly thyme and columbine
And stay where love and death are mine and thine.
Here, in the common day,
And watch Love's eyes grow dim, Love's head turn gray?
We will let be those isles of gramarye
And magic flowers let be,
To pluck our earthly thyme and columbine
And stay where love and death are mine and thine.
xxiii
THE SHORT CUT TO ROSSES
By the short cut to Rosses a fairy girl I met;
I was taken in her beauty as a fish is in a net.
The fern uncurled to look at her, so very fair was she,
With her hair as bright as seaweed new-drawn from out the sea.
I was taken in her beauty as a fish is in a net.
The fern uncurled to look at her, so very fair was she,
With her hair as bright as seaweed new-drawn from out the sea.
By the short cut to Rosses ('twas on the first of May)
I heard the fairies piping, and they piped my heart away;
They piped till I was mad with joy, but when I was alone
I found my heart was piped away and in my breast a stone.
I heard the fairies piping, and they piped my heart away;
They piped till I was mad with joy, but when I was alone
I found my heart was piped away and in my breast a stone.
By the short cut to Rosses 't is I'll go never more,
Lest I be robbed of soul by her that stole my heart before,
Lest she take my soul and crush it like a dead leaf in her hand,
For the short cut to Rosses is the way to Fairyland.
Lest I be robbed of soul by her that stole my heart before,
Lest she take my soul and crush it like a dead leaf in her hand,
For the short cut to Rosses is the way to Fairyland.
xxiv
ON RYE HILL
Green meadows after the rainfall look like spring:
We pass along them, lazily loitering.
White flowers in the deep grass move at the touch of a white moth's wing:
The cattle are still in the meadow, and high on the hill
The sheep are still.
We pass along them, lazily loitering.
White flowers in the deep grass move at the touch of a white moth's wing:
The cattle are still in the meadow, and high on the hill
The sheep are still.
A robin sings in the hawthorn that leans so low,
Bowed by the weight of its haws, and the blackberries show
Delicate blossom, and fruit that deepens from red
Into the perfect black, and the deep-thorned branches spread
Traps in the yellowing grass for the careless feet that fare
This way in the lover's twilight; and up from the alders there
A cloud of swallows rises and dances high in the air.
Bowed by the weight of its haws, and the blackberries show
Delicate blossom, and fruit that deepens from red
Into the perfect black, and the deep-thorned branches spread
Traps in the yellowing grass for the careless feet that fare
This way in the lover's twilight; and up from the alders there
A cloud of swallows rises and dances high in the air.
Bells leap up and follow with chime upon chime
Us as we climb
Up past the alder coolness, the hazel screen.
Over us now no trees but the oaks stand green;
Beautiful, steadfast, grave, they gather and stand,
Guarding the dimpling land;
And far away where the girdle of oaks slips free—
Behold, the sea.
Us as we climb
Up past the alder coolness, the hazel screen.
Over us now no trees but the oaks stand green;
Beautiful, steadfast, grave, they gather and stand,
Guarding the dimpling land;
And far away where the girdle of oaks slips free—
Behold, the sea.
xxv
ON THE THAMES EMBANKMENT (LONDON)
The bridge's loops were full of stars:
Across the bridge there went and came
A thousand wandering eyes of flame
And then the rattle of the cars.
Across the bridge there went and came
A thousand wandering eyes of flame
And then the rattle of the cars.
A stain of orange in the smoke
Rose and turned brown and passed away.
A breath of music tossed like spray
Against the river-wall, and broke.
Rose and turned brown and passed away.
A breath of music tossed like spray
Against the river-wall, and broke.
A new moon looked through rags of cloud;
A pigeon mourned among the trees;
And what was yesterday a breeze
Made the lamps quiver, and grew loud.
A pigeon mourned among the trees;
And what was yesterday a breeze
Made the lamps quiver, and grew loud.
Invisible the river was:
We heard it, but we could not see.
However foul its path may be
It might have been through river grass.
We heard it, but we could not see.
However foul its path may be
It might have been through river grass.
Of gifts it makes to days and nights
I took three memories away:
The scent of leaves that rotting lay,
The pigeon's call, the wandering lights.
I took three memories away:
The scent of leaves that rotting lay,
The pigeon's call, the wandering lights.
xxvi
WICKLOW HILLS
(To W. Y. Fletcher)
I heard the noise of fairy pipes complaining all night long
What time the skies were empty of cloud and star and song.
I heard the noise of fairy pipes complaining far away,
High up among the Wicklow Hills till dawning o' the day.
What time the skies were empty of cloud and star and song.
I heard the noise of fairy pipes complaining far away,
High up among the Wicklow Hills till dawning o' the day.
Oh, far was I from Wicklow Hills, and yet I saw and knew
Beneath the feet of dancers there how shone the druid dew:
My feet were moving to the tune that fairy pipers play
High up among the Wicklow Hills till dawning o' the day.
Beneath the feet of dancers there how shone the druid dew:
My feet were moving to the tune that fairy pipers play
High up among the Wicklow Hills till dawning o' the day.
My dead love danced all night with me among the deathless Shee,
And we were young and gay again together, I and he.
Though he was dead in Devenish, and I was far away,
We danced all night on Wicklow Hills till dawning o' the day.
And we were young and gay again together, I and he.
Though he was dead in Devenish, and I was far away,
We danced all night on Wicklow Hills till dawning o' the day.
xxvii
It 's O the kindly hands I grasped, the kindly eyes I knew!
It 's O to greet the dancing feet to-night amid the dew!
But the pipes are still, and never a hill I see but's far away
And I turn my head on a widowed bed, at dawning o' the day.
It 's O to greet the dancing feet to-night amid the dew!
But the pipes are still, and never a hill I see but's far away
And I turn my head on a widowed bed, at dawning o' the day.
xxviii
A WHITE NIGHT
White stand the houses out in the moonless midnight.
Here and there a window lighted yet stands plain,
Strange as a lifted eyelid in a face that slumbers.
The wakefulness behind it, is it grief or sin or pain?
Here and there a window lighted yet stands plain,
Strange as a lifted eyelid in a face that slumbers.
The wakefulness behind it, is it grief or sin or pain?
Cart on cart moves stealthily, feet on feet follow;
Wheels plod on reluctantly, creaking as they go;
A snatch of crazy song beats down a baby's crying;
But over all and each the silence falls like snow.
Wheels plod on reluctantly, creaking as they go;
A snatch of crazy song beats down a baby's crying;
But over all and each the silence falls like snow.
All sounds flower slowly from the heart of silence,
Not as in the daylight, shrieked at ears a-strain:
Harsh sounds come less harshly, and fade before they trouble
Ears that hear them come and go, and peace grow whole again.
Not as in the daylight, shrieked at ears a-strain:
Harsh sounds come less harshly, and fade before they trouble
Ears that hear them come and go, and peace grow whole again.
One by one the fixed lights grow paler and grow fewer;
One by one man quenches what he lit; the stars remain.
The gray sky whitens; with a shudder it is daylight;
Cocks are crowing sleep away, and day brings rain.
One by one man quenches what he lit; the stars remain.
The gray sky whitens; with a shudder it is daylight;
Cocks are crowing sleep away, and day brings rain.
xxix
A DAWN
Streak upon streak of turquoise in a sheet of heavy gray,A space of shining silver where the clouds are torn away,
Stars growing pale in heaven o'erhead, and, lower down,
A fringe of amber touches the roofs of the sleeping town.
Shadowy wains and waggoners steal slow and softly by;
There is no sudden swish of whips, there is no carter's cry.
Upon the lips that cease from speech, the lids that fain would rest,
A little wind comes whispering out of the lightless west.
Lamps in the road are quenched and die because the day's begun,
Although there's half an hour to wait ere men salute the sun.
Steps of a homeless woman sound hollow down the street;
Laugh of a man rings noisily where man and woman meet,
And change with languid eyes and lips a fire of idle words. . .
A cry of foolish laughter.
Then silence; and the birds.
xxx
A FEBRUARY DAY
The birds were crying by the lake
That Winter's chain would never break;
On brittle ice the seagulls slid,
And under leaves and mould was hid
The secret that will take the air
With sudden sweetness everywhere,
Proclaimed by daffodils with might
From trumpet-flowers of gold and white.
That Winter's chain would never break;
On brittle ice the seagulls slid,
And under leaves and mould was hid
The secret that will take the air
With sudden sweetness everywhere,
Proclaimed by daffodils with might
From trumpet-flowers of gold and white.
Along the edges of the grass,
And in the ruts where cart-wheels pass,
A border of unmelted snow
Lay, that the Spring herself might know
'Twas not yet time for her to keep
Tryst with the blossoms still asleep,
To wake the squirrel in his hole,
From chrysalid to call the soul.
And in the ruts where cart-wheels pass,
A border of unmelted snow
Lay, that the Spring herself might know
'Twas not yet time for her to keep
Tryst with the blossoms still asleep,
To wake the squirrel in his hole,
From chrysalid to call the soul.
Tall rods of winter jasmine stood
Naked of leaves, but glad of mood,
Covered with golden flowers for sign
That Spring would come, and cowslips shine
In those brown spaces 'neath the trees
Where only last year's leaves one sees
Heaped sadly as the last wind drave
Them to and fro the lily's grave.
Naked of leaves, but glad of mood,
Covered with golden flowers for sign
That Spring would come, and cowslips shine
In those brown spaces 'neath the trees
Where only last year's leaves one sees
xxxi
Them to and fro the lily's grave.
A robin on a holly-bough
Sang as if pairing-time were now
And not a wintry week away:
The brightest colour of the day
Was on his orange-feathered breast.
The silent starlings stepped in quest
Of food, where new-cut sods were turned.
High overhead a pale sun burned.
Sang as if pairing-time were now
And not a wintry week away:
The brightest colour of the day
Was on his orange-feathered breast.
The silent starlings stepped in quest
Of food, where new-cut sods were turned.
High overhead a pale sun burned.
xxxii
A JUNE NIGHT
The moon is a vampire to-night. She has sucked from the stars
Their splendour of silver: they lean to us weary and white
Like prisoners' faces pressed pale against window bars,
And the wind is full of whispering dust to-night.
Their splendour of silver: they lean to us weary and white
Like prisoners' faces pressed pale against window bars,
And the wind is full of whispering dust to-night.
The roads are spread thickly with velvet that no one may hear
Coming or going of June: shattered topaz and pearl
Of the chestnuts are shed underfoot, and disappear
In dust that follows men's feet and the wheels that whirl.
Coming or going of June: shattered topaz and pearl
Of the chestnuts are shed underfoot, and disappear
In dust that follows men's feet and the wheels that whirl.
There's a ghost by the hedge that by day is a blossoming elder:
A dusty and breathless scent is blown down to me
Out of the laurustinus. The sun-smitten guelder
Drops her last snowball, and droops as a barren tree.
A dusty and breathless scent is blown down to me
Out of the laurustinus. The sun-smitten guelder
Drops her last snowball, and droops as a barren tree.
xxxiii
A THUNDERSTORM
The sea is full, and over-full;
The waves are edged with foam like wool:
Does Proteus shear his flocks to-night?
It seems so thick with fleeces white.
The waves are edged with foam like wool:
Does Proteus shear his flocks to-night?
It seems so thick with fleeces white.
The sky is like a copper shield,
Brought broken from a battle-field;
Between its rents the lightnings leap,
Tryst with the meeting clouds to keep.
Brought broken from a battle-field;
Between its rents the lightnings leap,
Tryst with the meeting clouds to keep.
The wind cries like a child to-night:
Its breath has turned the poplars white;
The ivy shudders on the wall,
And petals of red lilies fall.
Its breath has turned the poplars white;
The ivy shudders on the wall,
And petals of red lilies fall.
A moment, and the world is dumb:
The moment ere the thunders come.
The earth holds breath 'twixt fear and pain,
Then, childlike, floods her fear with rain.
The moment ere the thunders come.
The earth holds breath 'twixt fear and pain,
Then, childlike, floods her fear with rain.
xxxiv
GRAY SAILS
(To John Lane)
What do you look for, 'twixt dusk and gloaming,
White sails going or gray sails homing?
White sails going or gray sails homing?
Sunset turns white sails red in the bay;
Gloaming finds not the sails of gray.
Gloaming finds not the sails of gray.
Patched and rotten the gray sails were;
White sails gleam in the sunset air.
White sails gleam in the sunset air.
Under the white sails hearts are gay;
Sorrow sailed with the sails of gray—
Sorrow sailed with the sails of gray—
Sorrow for pilot and Skipper Sin.
What if the gray sails never came in?
What if the gray sails never came in?
Peril of ship and soul might be.
What if they sailed to a quiet sea,
What if they sailed to a quiet sea,
Safe from danger of rock and blast,
Where sails of gray might be furled at last?
Where sails of gray might be furled at last?
The red wind out of the East blows on
O'er white sails going and gray sails gone.
O'er white sails going and gray sails gone.
Somewhere or other the red wind sees
Quiet harbours where ride at ease
Quiet harbours where ride at ease
xxxv
Ships that were stormbound far away,
Ships with white sails and ships with gray.
Ships with white sails and ships with gray.
Hush your keen in the windy gloaming,
In that good harbour gray sails are homing.
In that good harbour gray sails are homing.
xxxvi
A LITTLE CREED
Life is a scroll whereon the soul must write
Its tale of peace or sorrow or delight.
No man may leave it white,
But write true words thereon, though these were only
“I lived,” “I loved,” “I hoped,” or “I was lonely.”
Its tale of peace or sorrow or delight.
No man may leave it white,
But write true words thereon, though these were only
“I lived,” “I loved,” “I hoped,” or “I was lonely.”
The one false word of life is Ichabod.
The glory is not departed:
They lie who say it, being heavy-hearted.
The glory was here; the glory is hid with God.
All glories that we lose, or we forego,
Some day shall find us, this I surely know.
The glory is not departed:
They lie who say it, being heavy-hearted.
The glory was here; the glory is hid with God.
All glories that we lose, or we forego,
Some day shall find us, this I surely know.
All lost and lovely things of long ago,
Whose living fire grew cold
Upon the altars that we built of old,
Shall come and warm again
The gray and empty places of our pain,
Visible gods and fair
Breathing immortal promise in the air
That, being past sunset, lets all colours go,
Whose living fire grew cold
Upon the altars that we built of old,
Shall come and warm again
The gray and empty places of our pain,
Visible gods and fair
Breathing immortal promise in the air
That, being past sunset, lets all colours go,
Gladness and sadness that we put away,
And every dim belief of yesterday
For which we do not pray,
Grown old and cold and tired with long desire,
And every dim belief of yesterday
For which we do not pray,
Grown old and cold and tired with long desire,
xxxvii
Grown stiff with kneeling in a winter's night
In the ghost-ridden place of old delight,
Blowing the ashes gray
Of youth's extinguished fire,
Grace that we dare not hope for,
Good that we blindly grope for—
A sweet and piteous host
Of lovelinesses lost.
In the ghost-ridden place of old delight,
Blowing the ashes gray
Of youth's extinguished fire,
Grace that we dare not hope for,
Good that we blindly grope for—
A sweet and piteous host
Of lovelinesses lost.
When we are tired of seeking, and are still,
Broken, not in desire, but in our will,
Our heart's desire shall come to us, and kiss
The lips that lost their colour, seeking this.
Broken, not in desire, but in our will,
Our heart's desire shall come to us, and kiss
The lips that lost their colour, seeking this.
xxxviii
SOONTREE
(A Lullaby)
My joy and my grief, go sleep and gather
Dreams from the tree where the dreams hang low
Rounder than apples, and sweeter than honey,
All to delight you, ma creevin cno!
Dreams from the tree where the dreams hang low
Rounder than apples, and sweeter than honey,
All to delight you, ma creevin cno!
My joy, fill your dear hands full of roses,
And gather lilies that stand a-row:
Pull rush and reed with the Shee's fair children,
But eat not, drink not, ma creevin cno!
And gather lilies that stand a-row:
Pull rush and reed with the Shee's fair children,
But eat not, drink not, ma creevin cno!
You may not taste of the cups of honey,
You may not taste of the wine blood-red.
Of the mead and the wine he drank, your father,
And the next night's rain wept your father, dead.
You may not taste of the wine blood-red.
Of the mead and the wine he drank, your father,
And the next night's rain wept your father, dead.
Reach up to the star that hangs the lowest,
Tread down the drift of the apple-blow,
Ride your ragweed horse to the Isle of Nobles;
But the Shee's wine drink not, ma creevin cno!
Shoheen, shoheen, shoheen, sho!
Tread down the drift of the apple-blow,
Ride your ragweed horse to the Isle of Nobles;
But the Shee's wine drink not, ma creevin cno!
Shoheen, shoheen, shoheen, sho!
xxxix
AN IRISH LULLABY
Husho, husho, winds are wild in the willows,
Birds are warm in downy nests, every bird but you.
King's children wake and toss on silken pillows.
You have but a broken roof to keep you from the dew.
Husho!
Birds are warm in downy nests, every bird but you.
King's children wake and toss on silken pillows.
You have but a broken roof to keep you from the dew.
Husho!
Husho, husho, rain falls cold in the city,
Here rain falls kindly, falls warm on sleepy eyes.
Husho, husho! even the clouds take pity
On my vourneen deelish O and leave you silver skies.
Husho!
Here rain falls kindly, falls warm on sleepy eyes.
Husho, husho! even the clouds take pity
On my vourneen deelish O and leave you silver skies.
Husho!
Husho, husho, silver skies to sail in,
In a boat of amber, warm as any nest:
Ah, but can my cushla find no place to wail in
But the warmest place on earth, and that her mother's breast?
Husho!
In a boat of amber, warm as any nest:
Ah, but can my cushla find no place to wail in
But the warmest place on earth, and that her mother's breast?
Husho!
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