| She that but little patience knew, |
| From childhood on, had now so much |
| A grey gull lost its fear and flew |
| Down to her cell and there alit, |
| And there endured her fingers’ touch |
| And from her fingers ate its bit. |
|
|
|
|
| Did
she in touching that lone wing |
| Recall the years before her mind |
| Became a bitter, an abstract thing, |
| Her
thought some popular enmity: |
| Blind and leader of the blind |
| Drinking the foul ditch where they lie? |
|
|
|
|
| When
long ago I saw her ride |
| Under Ben Bulben to the meet, |
| The beauty of her country-side |
| With all youth’s
lonely wildness stirred, |
| She seemed to have grown clean and sweet |
| Like any rock-bred, sea-borne bird: |
|
|
|
|
| Sea-borne, or balanced on the air |
| When first it sprang out of the nest |
| Upon some lofty rock to stare |
| Upon the cloudy canopy, |
| While under its storm-beaten breast |
| Cried out the hollows of the sea. |