FRANCIS LEDWIDGE (continued 2)

THE RUSHES The rushes nod by the river As the winds on the loud waves go, And the things they nod of are many, For it's many the secret they know. And I think they are wise as the fairies Who lived ere the hills were high, They nod so grave by the river To everyone passing by. If they would tell me their secrets I would go by a hidden way, To the rath when the moon retiring Dips dim horns into the gray. And a fairy-girl out of Leinster In a long dance I should meet, My heart to her heart beating, My feet in rhyme with her feet. France, January 6th, 1917. THE DEAD KINGS All the dead kings came to me At Rosnaree, where I was dreaming. A few stars glimmered through the morn, And down the thorn the dews were streaming. And every dead king had a story Of ancient glory, sweetly told. It was too early for the lark, But the starry dark had tints of gold. I listened to the sorrows three Of that Eirë passed into song. A cock crowed near a hazel croft, And up aloft dim larks winged strong. And I, too, told the kings a story Of later glory, her fourth sorrow: There was a sound like moving shields In high green fields and the lowland furrow. And one said: "We who yet are kings Have heard these things lamenting inly." Sweet music flowed from many a bill And on the hill the morn stood queenly. And one said: "Over is the singing, And bell bough ringing, whence we come; With heavy hearts we'll tread the shadows, In honey meadows birds are dumb." And one said: "Since the poets perished And all they cherished in the way, Their thoughts unsung, like petal showers Inflame the hours of blue and gray." And one said: "A loud tramp of men We'll hear again at Rosnaree." A bomb burst near me where I lay. I woke, 'twas day in Picardy. France, January 7th, 1917. IN FRANCE The silence of maternal hills Is round me in my evening dreams; And round me music-making bills And mingling waves of pastoral streams. Whatever way I turn I find The path is old unto me still. The hills of home are in my mind, And there I wander as I will. February 3rd, 1917. HAD I A GOLDEN POUND (AFTER THE IRISH) Had I a golden pound to spend, My love should mend and sew no more. And I would buy her a little quern, Easy to turn on the kitchen floor. And for her windows curtains white, With birds in flight and flowers in bloom, To face with pride the road to town, And mellow down her sunlit room. And with the silver change we'd prove The truth of Love to life's own end, With hearts the years could but embolden, Had I a golden pound to spend. February 5th, 1917. FAIRIES Maiden-poet, come with me To the heaped up cairn of Maeve, And there we'll dance a fairy dance Upon a fairy's grave. In and out among the trees, Filling all the night with sound, The morning, strung upon her star, Shall chase us round and round. What are we but fairies too, Living but in dreams alone, Or, at the most, but children still, Innocent and overgrown? February 6th, 1917. IN A CAFÉ Kiss the maid and pass her round, Lips like hers were made for many. Our loves are far from us to-night, But these red lips are sweet as any. Let no empty glass be seen Aloof from our good table's sparkle, At the acme of our cheer Here are francs to keep the circle. They are far who miss us most—Sip and kiss—how well we love them, Battling through the world to keep Their hearts at peace, their God above them. February 11th, 1917. SPRING Once more the lark with song and speed Cleaves through the dawn, his hurried bars Fall, like the flute of Ganymede Twirling and whistling from the stars. The primrose and the daffodil Surprise the valleys, and wild thyme Is sweet on every little hill, When lambs come down at folding time. In every wild place now is heard The magpie's noisy house, and through The mingled tunes of many a bird The ruffled wood-dove's gentle coo. Sweet by the river's noisy brink The water-lily bursts her crown, The kingfisher comes down to drink Like rainbow jewels falling down. And when the blue and grey entwine The daisy shuts her golden eye, And peaces-wraps all those hills of mine Safe in my dearest memory. France, March 8th, 1917. PAN He knows the safe ways and unsafe And he will lead the lambs to fold, Gathering them with his merry pipe, The gentle and the overbold. He counts them over one by one, And leads them back by cliff and steep, To grassy hills where dawn is wide, And they may run and skip and leap. And just because he loves the lambs He settles them for rest at noon, And plays them on his oaten pipe The very wonder of a tune. France, March 11th, 1917. WITH FLOWERS These have more language than my song, Take them and let them speak for me. I whispered them a secret thing Down the green lanes of Allary. You shall remember quiet ways Watching them fade, and quiet eyes, And two hearts given up to love, A foolish and an overwise. France, April, 1917. THE FIND I took a reed and blew a tune, And sweet it was and very clear To be about a little thing That only few hold dear. Three times the cuckoo named himself, But nothing heard him on the hill, Where I was piping like an elf The air was very still. 'Twas all about a little thing I made a mystery of sound, I found it in a fairy ring Upon a fairy mound. June 2nd, 1917. A FAIRY HUNT Who would hear the fairy horn Calling all the hounds of Finn Must be in a lark's nest born When the moon is very thin. I who have the gift can hear Hounds and horn and tally ho, And the tongue of Bran as clear As Christmas bells across the snow. And beside my secret place Hurries by the fairy fox, With the moonrise on his face, Up and down the mossy rocks. Then the music of a horn And the flash of scarlet men, Thick as poppies in the corn All across the dusky glen. Oh! the mad delight of chase! Oh! the shouting and the cheer! Many an owl doth leave his place In the dusty tree to hear. TO ONE WHO COMES NOW AND THEN When you come in, it seems a brighter fire Crackles upon the hearth invitingly, The household routine which was wont to tire Grows full of novelty. You sit upon our home-upholstered chair And talk of matters wonderful and strange, Of books, and travel, customs old which dare The gods of Time and Change. Till we with inner word our care refute Laughing that this our bosoms yet assails, While there are maidens dancing to a flute In Andalusian vales. And sometimes from my shelf of poems you take And secret meanings to our hearts disclose, As when the winds of June the mid bush shake We see the hidden rose. And when the shadows muster, and each tree A moment flutters, full of shutting wings, You take the fiddle and mysteriously Wake wonders on the strings. And in my garden, grey with misty flowers, Low echoes fainter than a beetle's horn Fill all the corners with it, like sweet showers Of bells, in the owl's morn. Come often, friend, with welcome and surprise We'll greet you from the sea or from the town; Come when you like and from whatever skies Above you smile or frown. Belgium, July 22nd, 1917. THE SYLPH I saw you and I named a flower That lights with blue a woodland space, I named a bird of the red hour And a hidden fairy place. And then I saw you not, and knew Dead leaves were whirling down the mist, And something lost was crying through An evening of amethyst. HOME A burst of sudden wings at dawn, Faint voices in a dreamy noon, Evenings of mist and murmurings, And nights with rainbows of the moon. And through these things a wood-way dim, And waters dim, and slow sheep seen On uphill paths that wind away Through summer sounds and harvest green. This is a song a robin sang This morning on a broken tree, It was about the little fields That call across the world to me. Belgium, July, 1917. THE LANAWN SHEE Powdered and perfumed the full bee Winged heavily across the clover, And where the hills were dim with dew, Purple and blue the west leaned over. A willow spray dipped in the stream, Moving a gleam of silver ringing, And by a finny creek a maid Filled all the shade with softest singing. Listening, my heart and soul at strife, On the edge of life I seemed to hover, For I knew my love had come at last, That my joy was past and my gladness over. I tiptoed gently tip and stooped Above her looped and shining tresses, And asked her of her kin and name, And why she came from fairy places. She told me of a sunny coast Beyond the most adventurous sailor, Where she had spent a thousand years Out of the fears that now assail her. And there, she told me, honey drops Out of the tops of ash and willow, And in the mellow shadow Sleep Doth sweetly keep her poppy pillow. Nor Autumn with her brown line marks The time of larks, the length of roses, But song-time there is over never Nor flower-time ever, ever closes. And wildly through uncurling ferns Fast water turns down valleys singing, Filling with scented winds the dales, Setting the bells of sleep a-ringing. And when the thin moon lowly sinks, Through cloudy chinks a silver glory Lingers upon the left of night Till dawn delights the meadows hoary. And by the lakes the skies are white, (Oh, the delight!) when swans are coming, Among the flowers sweet joy-bells peal, And quick bees wheel in drowsy humming. The squirrel leaves her dusty house And in the boughs makes fearless gambol, And, falling down in fire-drops, red, The fruit is shed from every bramble. Then, gathered all about the trees Glad galaxies of youth are dancing, Treading the perfume of the flowers, Filling the hours with mazy glancing. And when the dance is done, the trees Are left to Peace and the brown woodpecker, And on the western slopes of sky The day's blue eye begins to flicker. But at the sighing of the leaves, When all earth grieves for lights departed An ancient and a sad desire Steals in to tire the human-hearted. No fairy aid can save them now Nor turn their prow upon the ocean, The hundred years that missed each heart Above them start their wheels in motion. And so our loves are lost, she sighed, And far and wide we seek new treasure, For who on Time or Timeless hills Can live the ills of loveless leisure? ("Fairer than Usna's youngest son, O, my poor one, what flower-bed holds you? Or, wrecked upon the shores of home, What wave of foam with white enfolds you? "You rode with kings on hills of green, And lovely queens have served you banquet, Sweet wine from berries bruised they brought And shyly sought the lips which drank it. "But in your dim grave of the sea There shall not be a friend to love you. And ever heedless of your loss The earth ships cross the storms above you. "And still the chase goes on, and still The wine shall spill, and vacant places ** Be given over to the new As love untrue keeps changing faces. "And I must wander with my song Far from the young till Love returning, Brings me the beautiful reward Of some heart stirred by my long yearning.") Friend, have you heard a bird lament When sleet is sent for April weather? As beautiful she told her grief, As down through leaf and flower I led her. And friend, could I remain unstirred Without a word for such a sorrow? Say, can the lark forget the cloud When poppies shroud the seeded furrow? Like a poor widow whose late grief Seeks for relief in lonely byeways, The moon, companionless and dim, Took her dull rim through starless highways. I was too weak with dreams to feel Enchantment steal with guilt upon me, She slipped, a flower upon the wind, And laughed to find how she had won me. From hill to hill, from land to land, Her lovely hand is beckoning for me, I follow on through dangerous zones, Cross dead men's bones and oceans stormy. Some day I know she'll wait at last And lock me fast in white embraces, And down mysterious ways of love We two shall move to fairy places. Belgium, July, 1917.