POEMS

311

LULLABY OF A WOMAN OF THE MOUNTAIN

Little gold head, my house’s candle,

You will guide all wayfarers that walk this mountain.

Little soft mouth that my breast has known,

Mary will kiss you as she passes.

Little round cheek, O smoother than satin,

Jesus will lay His hand on you.

Mary’s kiss on my baby’s mouth,

Christ’s little hand on my darling’s cheek!

House, be still, and ye little grey mice,

Lie close to-night in your hidden lairs.

Moths on the window, fold your wings,

Little black chafers, silence your humming.

Plover and curlew, fly not over my house,

Do not speak, wild barnacle, passing over this mountain.

Things of the mountain that wake in the night-time,

Do not stir to-night till the daylight whitens!

312

A WOMAN OF THE MOUNTAIN KEENS HER SON

Grief on the death, it has blackened my heart:

It has snatched my love and left me desolate,

Without friend or companion under the roof of my house

But this sorrow in the midst of me, and I keening.

As I walked the mountain in the evening

The birds spoke to me sorrowfully,

The sweet snipe spoke and the voiceful curlew

Relating to me that my darling was dead.

I called to you and your voice I heard not,

I called again and I got no answer,

I kissed your mouth, and O God how cold it was!

Ah, cold is your bed in the lonely churchyard.

O green-sodded grave in which my child is,

Little narrow grave, since you are his bed,

313My blessing on you, and thousands of blessings

On the green sods that are over my treasure.

Grief on the death, it cannot be denied,

It lays low, green and withered together,—

And O gentle little son, what tortures me is

That your fair body should be making clay!

314

O LITTLE BIRD

(A sparrow which I found dead on my doorstep on a day of winter.)

O little bird!

Cold to me thy lying on the flag:

Bird, that never had an evil thought,

Pitiful the coming of death to thee!

315

WHY DO YE TORTURE ME?

Why are ye torturing me, O desires of my heart?

Torturing me and paining me by day and by night?

Hunting me as a poor deer would be hunted on a hill,

A poor long-wearied deer with the hound-pack after him?

There’s no ease to my paining in the loneliness of the hills,

But the cry of the hunters terrifically to be heard,

The cry of my desires haunting me without respite,—

O ravening hounds, long is your run!

No satisfying can come to my desires while I live,

For the satisfaction I desired yesterday is no satisfaction,

And the hound-pack is the greedier of the satisfaction it has got,—

And forever I shall not sleep till I sleep in the grave.

316

LITTLE LAD OF THE TRICKS

Little lad of the tricks

Full well I know

That you have been in mischief:

Confess your fault truly.

I forgive you, child

Of the soft red mouth:

I will not condemn anyone

For a sin not understood.

Raise your comely head

Till I kiss your mouth:

If either of us is the better of that

I am the better of it.

There is a fragrance in your kiss

That I have not found yet

In the kisses of women

Or in the honey of their bodies.

Lad of the grey eyes,

That flush in thy cheek

Would be white with dread of me

Could you read my secrets.

317He who has my secrets

Is not fit to touch you:

Is not that a pitiful thing,

Little lad of the tricks?

318

O LOVELY HEAD

O lovely head of the woman that I loved,

In the middle of the night I remember thee:

But reality returns with the sun’s whitening,

Alas, that the slender worm gnaws thee to-night.

Beloved voice, that wast low and beautiful,

Is it true that I heard thee in my slumbers!

Or is the knowledge true that tortures me?

My grief, the tomb hath no sound or voice?

319

LONG TO ME THY COMING

Long to me thy coming,

Old henchman of God,

O friend of all friends,

To free me from my pain.

O syllable on the wind,

O footfall not heavy,

O hand in the dark,

Your coming is long to me.

320

A RANN I MADE

A rann I made within my heart

To the rider, to the high king,

A rann I made to my love,

To the king of kings, ancient death.

Brighter to me than light of day

The dark of thy house, tho’ black clay;

Sweeter to me than the music of trumpets

The quiet of thy house and its eternal silence.

321

TO A BELOVED CHILD

Laughing mouth, what tortures me is

That thou shalt be weeping;

Lovely face, it is my pity

That thy brightness shall grow grey.

Noble head, thou art proud,

But thou shalt bow with sorrow;

And it is a pitiful thing I forbode for thee

Whenever I kiss thee.

322

I HAVE NOT GARNERED GOLD

I have not garnered gold;

The fame I found hath perished;

In love I got but grief

That withered my life.

Of riches or of store

I shall not leave behind me

(Yet I deem it, O God, sufficient)

But my name in the heart of a child.

323

I AM IRELAND

I am Ireland:

I am older than the Old Woman of Beare.

Great my glory:

I that bore Cuchulainn the valiant.

Great my shame:

My own children that sold their mother.

I am Ireland:

I am lonelier than the Old Woman of Beare.

324

RENUNCIATION

Naked I saw thee,

O beauty of beauty,

And I blinded my eyes

For fear I should fail.

I heard thy music,

O melody of melody,

And I closed my ears

For fear I should falter.

I tasted thy mouth,

O sweetness of sweetness,

And I hardened my heart

For fear of my slaying.

I blinded my eyes,

And I closed my ears,

I hardened my heart

And I smothered my desire.

I turned my back

On the vision I had shaped,

325And to this road before me

I turned my face.

I have turned my face

To this road before me,

To the deed that I see

And the death I shall die.

326

THE RANN OF THE LITTLE PLAYMATE

Young Iosa plays with me every day,

(With an óró and an iaró)

Tig and Pookeen and Hide-in-the-Hay,

(With an óró and an iaró)

We race in the rivers with otters grey,

We climb the tall trees where red squirrels play,

We watch the wee lady-bird fly far away.

(With an óró and an iaró and an úmbó éró!)

327

A SONG FOR MARY MAGDALENE

O woman of the gleaming hair,

(Wild hair that won men’s gaze to thee)

Weary thou turnest from the common stare,

For the shuiler Christ is calling thee.

O woman of the snowy side,

Many a lover hath lain with thee,

Yet left thee sad at the morning tide,

But thy lover Christ shall comfort thee.

O woman with the wild thing’s heart,

Old sin hath set a snare for thee:

In the forest ways forspent thou art

But the hunter Christ shall pity thee.

O woman spendthrift of thyself,

Spendthrift of all the love in thee,

Sold unto sin for little pelf,

The captain Christ shall ransom thee.

O woman that no lover’s kiss

(Tho’ many a kiss was given thee)

Could slake thy love, is it not for this

The hero Christ shall die for thee?

328

CHRIST’S COMING

I have made my heart clean to-night

As a woman might clean her house

Ere her lover come to visit her:

O Lover, pass not by!

I have opened the door of my heart

Like a man that would make a feast

For his son’s coming home from afar:

Lovely Thy coming, O Son!

329

ON THE STRAND OF HOWTH

On the strand of Howth

Breaks a sounding wave;

A lone sea-gull screams

Above the bay.

In the middle of the meadow

Beside Glasnevin

The corncrake speaks

All night long.

There is minstrelsy of birds

In Glenasmole,

The blackbird and thrush

Chanting music.

There is shining of sun

On the side of Slieverua,

And the wind blowing

Down over its brow.

On the harbour of Dunleary

Are boat and ship

With sails set

Ploughing the waves.

330Here in Ireland,

Am I, my brother,

And you far from me

In gallant Paris,

I beholding

Hill and harbour,

The strand of Howth

And Slieverua’s side,

And you victorious

In mighty Paris

Of the limewhite palaces

And the surging hosts;

And what I ask

Of you, beloved,

Far away

Is to think at times

Of the corncrake’s tune

Beside Glasnevin

In the middle of the meadow,

Speaking in the night;

331Of the voice of the birds

In Glenasmole

Happily, with melody,

Chanting music;

Of the strand of Howth

Where a wave breaks,

And the harbour of Dunleary,

Where a ship rocks;

On the sun that shines

On the side of Slieverua,

And the wind that blows

Down over its brow.

332

THE DORD FEINNE

’Se do bheatha, O woman that wast sorrowful,

What grieved us was thy being in chains,

Thy beautiful country in the possession of rogues,

And thou sold to the Galls,

Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile,

Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile,

Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile,

Now at summer’s coming!

Thanks to the God of miracles that we see,

Altho’ we live not a week thereafter,

Gráinne Mhaol and a thousand heroes

Proclaiming the scattering of the Galls!

Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile,

Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile,

Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile,

Now at summer’s coming!

Gráinne Mhaol is coming from over the sea,

The Fenians of Fál as a guard about her,

Gaels they, and neither French nor Spaniard,

And a rout upon the Galls!

Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile,

Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile,

Oró, ’se do bheatha a bhaile,

Now at summer’s coming!

333

THE MOTHER

I do not grudge them: Lord, I do not grudge

My two strong sons that I have seen go out

To break their strength and die, they and a few,

In bloody protest for a glorious thing,

They shall be spoken of among their people,

The generations shall remember them,

And call them blessed;

But I will speak their names to my own heart

In the long nights;

The little names that were familiar once

Round my dead hearth.

Lord, thou art hard on mothers:

We suffer in their coming and their going;

And tho’ I grudge them not, I weary, weary

Of the long sorrow—And yet I have my joy:

My sons were faithful, and they fought.

334

THE FOOL

Since the wise men have not spoken, I speak that am only a fool;

A fool that hath loved his folly,

Yea, more than the wise men their books or their counting houses, or their quiet homes,

Or their fame in men’s mouths;

A fool that in all his days hath done never a prudent thing,

Never hath counted the cost, nor recked if another reaped

The fruit of his mighty sowing, content to scatter the seed;

A fool that is unrepentant, and that soon at the end of all

Shall laugh in his lonely heart as the ripe ears fall to the reaping-hooks

And the poor are filled that were empty,

Tho’ he go hungry.

I have squandered the splendid years that the Lord God gave to my youth

In attempting impossible things, deeming them alone worth the toil.

335Was it folly or grace? Not men shall judge me, but God.

I have squandered the splendid years:

Lord, if I had the years I would squander them over again,

Aye, fling them from me!

For this I have heard in my heart, that a man shall scatter, not hoard,

Shall do the deed of to-day, nor take thought of to-morrow’s teen,

Shall not bargain or huxter with God; or was it a jest of Christ’s

And is this my sin before men, to have taken Him at His word?

The lawyers have sat in council, the men with the keen, long faces,

And said, “This man is a fool,” and others have said, “He blasphemeth;”

And the wise have pitied the fool that hath striven to give a life

In the world of time and space among the bulks of actual things,

To a dream that was dreamed in the heart, and that only the heart could hold.

336O wise men, riddle me this: what if the dream come true?

What if the dream come true? and if millions unborn shall dwell

In the house that I shaped in my heart, the noble house of my thought?

Lord, I have staked my soul, I have staked the lives of my kin

On the truth of Thy dreadful word. Do not remember my failures,

But remember this my faith.

And so I speak.

Yea, ere my hot youth pass, I speak to my people and say:

Ye shall be foolish as I; ye shall scatter, not save;

Ye shall venture your all, lest ye lose what is more than all;

Ye shall call for a miracle, taking Christ at His word.

And for this I will answer, O people, answer here and hereafter,

O people that I have loved shall we not answer together?

337

THE REBEL

I am come of the seed of the people, the people that sorrow,

That have no treasure but hope,

No riches laid up but a memory

Of an Ancient glory.

My mother bore me in bondage, in bondage my mother was born,

I am of the blood of serfs;

The children with whom I have played, the men and women with whom I have eaten,

Have had masters over them, have been under the lash of masters,

And, though gentle, have served churls;

The hands that have touched mine, the dear hands whose touch is familiar to me,

Have worn shameful manacles, have been bitten at the wrist by manacles,

Have grown hard with the manacles and the task-work of strangers,

I am flesh of the flesh of these lowly, I am bone of their bone,

I that have never submitted;

I that have a soul greater than the souls of my people’s masters,

338I that have vision and prophecy and the gift of fiery speech,

I that have spoken with God on the top of His holy hill.

And because I am of the people, I understand the people,

I am sorrowful with their sorrow, I am hungry with their desire:

My heart has been heavy with the grief of mothers,

My eyes have been wet with the tears of children,

I have yearned with old wistful men,

And laughed or cursed with young men;

Their shame is my shame, and I have reddened for it,

Reddened for that they have served, they who should be free,

Reddened for that they have gone in want, while others have been full,

Reddened for that they have walked in fear of lawyers and of their jailors

With their writs of summons and their handcuffs,

Men mean and cruel!

339I could have borne stripes on my body rather than this shame of my people.

And now I speak, being full of vision;

I speak to my people, and I speak in my people’s name to the masters of my people.

I say to my people that they are holy, that they are august, despite their chains,

That they are greater than those that hold them, and stronger and purer,

That they have but need of courage, and to call on the name of their God,

God the unforgetting, the dear God that loves the peoples

For whom He died naked, suffering shame.

And I say to my people’s masters: Beware,

Beware of the thing that is coming, beware of the risen people,

Who shall take what ye would not give. Did ye think to conquer the people,

Or that Law is stronger than life and than men’s desire to be free?

We will try it out with you, ye that have harried and held,

Ye that have bullied and bribed, tyrants, hypocrites, liars!

340

CHRISTMAS

1915

O King that was born

To set bondsmen free,

In the coming battle,

Help the Gael!

341

THE WAYFARER

The beauty of the world hath made me sad,

This beauty that will pass;

Sometimes my heart hath shaken with great joy

To see a leaping squirrel in a tree,

Or a red lady-bird upon a stalk,

Or little rabbits in a field at evening,

Lit by a slanting sun,

Or some green hill where shadows drifted by

Some quiet hill where mountainy man hath sown

And soon would reap; near to the gate of Heaven;

Or children with bare feet upon the sands

Of some ebbed sea, or playing on the streets

Of little towns in Connacht,

Things young and happy.

And then my heart hath told me:

These will pass,

Will pass and change, will die and be no more,

Things bright and green, things young and happy;

And I have gone upon my way

Sorrowful.