The blessedest souls that walk in the world
To fill your heart with content."
"And which is the blessedest,' Cumhal said,
"Where all are
comely and good?
Is it these that with golden thuribles
Are singing about the wood?"
"My eyes are blinking,' Dathi said,
"With the secrets of God half blind,
But I can see where the wind goes
And follow the way of the wind;
"And blessedness goes where the wind goes,
And when it is gone we are dead;
I see the blessedest soul in the world
And he nods a
drunken head.
"O blessedness comes in the night and the day
And whither the wise heart knows;
And one has seen in the redness of wine
The Incorruptible Rose,
"That drowsily drops faint leaves on him
And the
sweetness of desire,
While time and the world are ebbing away
In twilights of dew and of fire."
THE CAT AND THE MOON
THE cat went here and there
And the moon spun round like a top,
And the nearest kin of the moon,
The creeping cat, looked up.
Black Minnaloushe stared at the moon,
For,
wander and wail as he would,
The pure cold light in the sky
Troubled his animal blood.
Minnaloushe runs in the grass
Lifting his
delicate feet.
Do you dance, Minnaloushe, do you dance?
When two close
kindred meet.
What better than call a dance?
Maybe the moon may learn,
Tired of that courtly fashion,
A new dance turn.
Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
From
moonlit place to place,
The
sacred moon overhead
Has taken a new phase.
Does Minnaloushe know that his pupils
Will pass from change to change,
And that from round to
crescent,
From
crescent to round they range?
Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
Alone, important and wise,
And lifts to the changing moon
His changing eyes.
THE COLD HEAVEN
SUDDENLY I saw the cold and rook-delighting heaven
That seemed as though ice burned and was but the
more ice,
And
thereuponimagination and heart were driven
So wild that every
casual thought of that and this
Vanished, and left but memories, that should be out
of season
With the hot blood of youth, of love crossed long ago;
And I took all thc blame out of all sense and reason,
Until I cried and trembled and rocked to and fro,
Riddled with light. Ah! when the ghost begins to
quicken,
Confusion of the death-bed over, is it sent
Out naked on the roads, as the books say, and stricken
By the
injustice of the skies for punishment?
THE CRAZED MOON
CRAZED through much child-bearing
The moon is staggering in the sky;
Moon-struck by the despairing
Glances of her
wandering eye
We grope, and grope in vain,
For children born of her pain.
Children dazed or dead!
When she in all her virginal pride
First trod on the mountain's head
What stir ran through the countryside
Where every foot obeyed her glance!
What
manhood led the dance!
Fly-catchers of the moon,
Our hands are blenched, our fingers seem
But
slender needles of bone;
Blenched by that
malicious dream
They are spread wide that each
May rend what comes in reach.
THE DOLLS
A DOLL in the doll-maker's house
Looks at the
cradle and bawls:
"That is an
insult to us.'
But the oldest of all the dolls,
Who had seen, being kept for show,
Generations of his sort,
Out-screams the whole shelf: 'Although
There's not a man can report
Evil of this place,
The man and the woman bring
Hither, to our disgrace,
A noisy and
filthy thing.'
Hearing him groan and stretch
The doll-maker's wife is aware
Her husband has heard the wretch,
And crouched by the arm of his chair,
She murmurs into his ear,
Head upon shoulder leant:
"My dear, my dear, O dear.
It was an accident.'
THE FIDDLER OF DOONEY
WHEN I play on my
fiddle in Dooney.
Folk dance like a wave of the sea;
My cousin is
priest in Kilvarnet,
My brother in Mocharabuiee.
I passed my brother and cousin:
They read in their books of prayer;
I read in my book of songs
I bought at the Sligo fair.
When we come at the end of time
To Peter sitting in state,
He will smile on the three old spirits,
But call me first through the gate;
For the good are always the merry,
Save by an evil chance,
And the merry love the
fiddle,
And the merry love to dance:
And when the folk there spy me,
They will all come up to me,
With "Here is the
fiddler of Dooney!"
And dance like a wave of the sea.
THE FISHERMAN
ALTHOUGH I can see him still.
The
freckled man who goes
To a grey place on a hill
In grey Connemara clothes
At dawn to cast his flies,
It's long since I began
To call up to the eyes
This wise and simple man.
All day I'd looked in the face
What I had hoped 'twould be
To write for my own race
And the reality;
The living men that I hate,
The dead man that I loved,
The craven man in his seat,
The
insolent unreproved,
And no knave brought to book
Who has won a
drunken cheer,
The witty man and his joke
Aimed at the commonest ear,
The clever man who cries
The catch-cries of the clown,
The
beating down of the wise
And great Art
beaten down.
Maybe a twelvemonth since
Suddenly I began,
In scorn of this audience,
Imagining a man,
And his sun-
freckled face,
And grey Connemara cloth,
Climbing up to a place
Where stone is dark under froth,
And the down-turn of his wrist
When the flies drop in the stream;
A man who does not exist,
A man who is but a dream;
And cried, "Before I am old
I shall have written him one
poem maybe as cold
And
passionate as the dawn.'
THE FOOL BY THE ROADSIDE
WHEN all works that have
From
cradle run to grave
From grave to
cradle run instead;
When thoughts that a fool
Has wound upon a spool
Are but loose thread, are but loose thread;
When
cradle and spool are past
And I mere shade at last
Coagulate of stuff
Transparent like the wind,
I think that I may find
A
faithful love, a
faithful love.
THE GREY ROCK
i{Poets with whom I
learned my trade.}
i{Companions of the Cheshire Cheese,}
i{Here's an old story I've remade,}
i{Imagining 'twould better please}
i{Your cars than stories now in fashion,}
i{Though you may think I waste my breath}
i{Pretending that there can be passion}
i{That has more life in it than death,}
i{And though at bottling of your wine}
i{Old
wholesome Goban had no say;}
i{The moral's yours because it's mine.}
When cups went round at close of day --
Is not that how good stories run? --
The gods were sitting at the board
In their great house at Slievenamon.
They sang a
drowsy song, Or snored,
For all were full of wine and meat.
The smoky torches made a glare