to say,
Be but the breakers of men's hearts or engines of
delight:
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their
day.
There'll be that crowd, that
barbarous crowd, through
all the centuries,
And who can say but some young belle may walk and
talk men wild
Who is my beauty's equal, though that my heart denies,
But not the exact
likeness, the
simplicity of a child,
And that proud look as though she had gazed into the
burning sun,
And all the shapely body no tittle gone astray.
I mourn for that most
lonely thing; and yet God's will
be done:
I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their
day.
THE HOST OF THE AIR
O'DRISCOLL drove with a song
The wild duck and the drake
From the tall and the tufted reeds
Of the drear Hart Lake.
And he saw how the reeds grew dark
At the coming of night-tide,
And dreamed of the long dim hair
Of Bridget his bride.
He heard while he sang and dreamed
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.
And he saw young men and young girls
Who danced on a level place,
And Bridget his bride among them,
With a sad and a gay face.
The dancers
crowded about him
And many a sweet thing said,
And a young man brought him red wine
And a young girl white bread.
But Bridget drew him by the sleeve
Away from the merry bands,
To old men playing at cards
With a twinkling of ancient hands.
The bread and the wine had a doom,
For these were the host of the air;
He sat and played in a dream
Of her long dim hair.
He played with the merry old men
And thought not of evil chance,
Until one bore Bridget his bride
Away from the merry dance.
He bore her away in his atms,
The handsomest young man there,
And his neck and his breast and his arms
Were drowned in her long dim hair.
O'Driscoll scattered the cards
And out of his dream awoke:
Old men and young men and young girls
Were gone like a drifting smoke;
But he heard high up in the air
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.
IMITATED FROM THE JAPANESE
A MOST
astonishing thing --
Seventy years have I lived;
(Hurrah for the flowers of Spring,
For Spring is here again.)
Seventy years have I lived
No
ragged beggar-man,
Seventy years have I lived,
Seventy years man and boy,
And never have I danced for joy.
THE INDIAN UPON GOD
I PASSED along the water's edge below the humid trees,
My spirit rocked in evening light, the rushes round my
knees,
My spirit rocked in sleep and sighs; and saw the moor-
fowl pace
All dripping on a
grassy slope, and saw them cease to
chase
Each other round in circles, and heard the
eldest speak:
i{Who holds the world between His bill and made us strong} or
i{weak}
i{Is an undying moorfowl, and He lives beyond the sky.}
i{The rains are from His dripping wing, the moonbeams from}
i{His eye.}
I passed a little further on and heard a lotus talk:
i{Who made the world and ruleth it, He hangeth on a stalk,}
i{For} I i{am in His image made, and all this tinkling tide}
i{Is but a sliding drop of rain between His petals wide.}
A little way within the gloom a roebuck raised his eyes
Brimful of
starlight, and he said: i{The Stamper} of i{the}
i{Skies,}
i{He is} a i{gentle roebuck; for how else,} I i{pray, could He}
i{Conceive a thing so sad and soft, a gentle thing like me?}
I passed a little further on and heard a
peacock say:
i{Who made the grass and made the worms and made my feathers}
i{gay,}
i{He is a
monstrouspeacock, and He waveth all the night}
i{His
languid tail above us, lit with
myriad spots} of i{light.}
INTO THE TWILIGHT
OUT-WORN heart, in a time out-worn,
Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;
Laugh, heart, again in the grey
twilight,
Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.
Your mother Eire is aways young,
Dew ever shining and
twilight grey;
Though hope fall from you and love decay,
Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.
Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill:
For there the mystical brotherhood
Of sun and moon and hollow and wood
And river and
stream work out their will;
And God stands winding His
lonely horn,
And time and the world are ever in flight;
And love is less kind than the grey
twilight,
And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.
IN THE SEVEN WOODS
I HAVE heard the pigeons of the Seven Woods
Make their faint
thunder, and the garden bees
Hum in the lime-tree flowers; and put away
The unavailing outcries and the old bitterness
That empty the heart. I have forgot
awhileTara uprooted, and new commonness
Upon the
throne and crying about the streets
And
hanging its paper flowers from post to post,
Because it is alone of all things happy.
I am
contented, for I know that Quiet
Wanders laughing and eating her wild heart
Among pigeons and bees, while that Great Archer,
Who but awaits His hour to shoot, still hangs
A cloudy
quiver over Pairc-na-lee.
EASTER
I HAVE met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From
counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or
polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered
awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
That woman's days were spent
In
ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our
winged horse;
This other his
helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So
sensitive his nature seemed,
So
daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A
drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the
casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living
stream.
The horse that comes from the road.
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the
streamChanges minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it
needless death after all?