Or I had no woman there to kiss;
So slept for half a year or so;
But year by year I found that less
Gave me such pleasure I'd forgo
Even a half-hour's nothingness,
And when at one year's end I found
I had not waked a single minute,
I chosc this
burrow under ground.
I'll sleep away all time within it:
My sleep were now nine centuries
But for those mornings when I find
The lapwing at their foolish dies
And the sheep bleating at the wind
As when I also played the fool.'
The
beggar in a rage began
Upon his hunkers in the hole,
"It's plain that you are no right man
To mock at everything I love
As if it were not worth, the doing.
I'd have a merry life enough
If a good Easter wind were blowing,
And though the winter wind is bad
I should not be too down in the mouth
For anything you did or said
If but this wind were in the south.'
"You cty aloud, O would 'twere spring
Or that the wind would shift a point,
And do not know that you would bring,
If time were suppler in the joint,
Neither the spring nor the south wind
But the hour when you shall pass away
And leave no smoking wick behind,
For all life longs for the Last Day
And there's no man but cocks his ear
To know when Michael's
trumpet cries
"That flesh and bone may disappear,
And souls as if they were but sighs,
And there be nothing but God left;
But, I aone being
blessed keep
Like some old
rabbit to my cleft
And wait Him in a
drunken sleep.'
He dipped his ladle in the tub
And drank and yawned and stretched him out,
The other shouted, "You would rob
My life of every pleasant thought
And every comfortable thing,
And so take that and that." Thereon
He gave him a great pummelling,
But might have pummelled at a stone
For all the
sleeper knew or cared;
And after heaped up stone on stone,
And then, grown weary, prayed and cursed
And heaped up stone on stone again,
And prayed and cursed and cursed and bed
From Maeve and all that juggling plain,
Nor gave God thanks till overhead
The clouds were brightening with the dawn.
THE LADY'S SECOND SONG
WHAT sort of man is coming
To lie between your feet?
What matter, we are but women.
Wash; make your body sweet;
I have cupboards of dried fragrance.
I can strew the sheet.
i{The Lord have mercy upon us.}
He shall love my soul as though
Body were not at all,
He shall love your body
Untroubled by the soul,
Love cram love's two divisions
Yet keep his substance whole.
i{The Lord have mercy upon us.}
Soul must learn a love that is
proper to my breast,
Limbs a Love in common
With every noble beast.
If soul may look and body touch,
Which is the more blest?
i{The Lord have mercy upon us.}
THE LEADERS OF THE CROWD
THEY must to keep their
certainty accuse
All that are different of a base intent;
Pull down established honour; hawk for news
Whatever their loose
fantasy invent
And murmur it with bated
breath, as though
The abounding
gutter had been Helicon
Or calumny a song. How can they know
Truth flourishes where the student's lamp has shone,
And there alone, that have no Solitude?
So the crowd come they care not what may come.
They have loud music, hope every day renewed
And heartier loves; that lamp is from the tomb.
THE LOVER ASKS FORGIVENESS BECAUSE OF HIS MANY MOODS
IF this importunate heart trouble your peace
With words lighter than air,
Or hopes that in mere hoping
flicker and cease;
Crumple the rose in your hair;
And cover your lips with odorous
twilight and say,
"O Hearts of wind-blown flame!
O Winds, older than changing of night and day,
That murmuring and
longing came
From
marble cities loud with tabors of old
In dove-grey faery lands;
From battle-banners, fold upon
purple fold,
Queens
wrought with glimmering hands;
That saw young Niamh hover with love-lorn face
Above the wandering tide;
And lingered in the
hiddendesolate place
Where the last Phoenix died,
And wrapped the flames above his holy head;
And still murmur and long:
O piteous Hearts, changing till change be dead
In a tumultuous song':
And cover the pale blossoms of your breast
With your dim heavy hair,
And trouble with a sigh for all things
longing for rest
The odorous
twilight there.
THE LOVER PLEADS WITH HIS FRIEND FOR OLD FRIENDS
THOUGH you are in your shining days,
Voices among the crowd
And new friends busy with your praise,
Be not
unkind or proud,
But think about old friends the most:
Time's bitter flood will rise,
Your beauty
perish and be lost
For all eyes but these eyes.
THE LOVER'S SONG
BIRD sighs for the air,
Thought for I know not where,
For the womb the seed sighs.
Now sinks the same rest
On mind, on nest,
On straining thighs.
THE MASK
"PUT off that mask of burning gold
With
emerald eyes."
"O no, my dear, you make so bold
To find if hearts be wild and wise,
And yet not cold."
"I would but find what's there to find,
Love or deceit."
"It was the mask engaged your mind,
And after set your heart to beat,
Not what's behind."
"But lest you are my enemy,
I must enquire."
"O no, my dear, let all that be;
What matter, so there is but fire
In you, in me?"
THE MOUNTAIN TOMB
POUR wine and dance if
manhood still have pride,
Bring roses if the rose be yet in bloom;
The
cataract smokes upon the mountain side,
Our Father Rosicross is in his tomb.
Pull down the blinds, bring
fiddle and clarionet
That there be no foot silent in the room
Nor mouth from kissing, nor from wine unwet;
Our Father Rosicross is in his tomb.
In vain, in pain; the
cataract still cries;
The
everlasting taper lights the gloom;
All
wisdom shut into his onyx eyes,
Our Father Rosicross sleeps in his tomb.
THE OLD MEN ADMIRING THEMSELVES IN THE WATER
I HEARD the old, old men say,
"Everything alters,
And one by one we drop away."
They had hands like claws, and their knees
Were twisted like the old thorn-trees
By the waters.
I heard the old, old men say,
"All that's beautiful drifts away
Like the waters."
THE PHASES OF THE MOON
i{An old man cocked his car upon a
bridge;}
i{He and his friend, their faces to the South,}
i{Had trod the
uneven road. Their hoots were soiled,}
i{Their Connemara cloth worn out of shape;}
i{They had kept a steady pace as though their beds,}
i{Despite a dwindling and late-risen moon,}
i{Were distant still. An old man cocked his ear.}
i{Aherne.} What made that Sound?
i{Robartes.} A rat or water-hen
Splashed, or an otter slid into the stream.
We are on the
bridge; that shadow is the tower,
And the light proves that he is
reading still.
He has found, after the manner of his kind,
Mere images; chosen this place to live in
Because, it may be, of the candle-light
From the far tower where Milton's Platonist
Sat late, or Shelley's visionary prince:
The
lonely light that Samuel Palmer engraved,
An image of
mysteriouswisdom won by toil;
And now he seeks in book or manuscript
What he shall never find.
i{Ahernc.} Why should not you
Who know it all ring at his door, and speak
Just truth enough to show that his whole life
Will scarcely find for him a broken crust
Of all those truths that are your daily bread;
And when you have
spoken take the roads again?
i{Robartes.} He wrote of me in that
extravagant style