| merry breath, |
| For joy is God and God is joy. |
| With one long glance for girl and boy |
| And the pale blossom
of the moon, |
| He fell into a Druid swoon. |
|
|
|
|
| And in a wild and sudden dance |
| We mocked at Time and Fate
and Chance |
| And swept out of the wattled hall |
| And came to where the dewdrops fall |
| Among the foamdrops
of the sea, |
| And there we hushed the revelry; |
| And, gathering on our brows a frown, |
| Bent all our swaying
bodies down, |
| And to the waves that glimmer by |
| That sloping green De Danaan sod |
| Sang, God is joy
and joy is God, |
| And things that have grown sad are wicked, |
| And things that fear the dawn of the morrow |
| Or
the grey wandering osprey Sorrow. |
|
|
|
|
| We danced to where in the winding thicket |
| The damask roses,
bloom on bloom, |
| Like crimson meteors hang in the gloom, |
| And bending over them softly said, |
| Bending
over them in the dance, |
| With a swift and friendly glance |
| From dewy eyes: Upon the dead |
| Fall the leaves
of other roses, |
| On the dead dim earth encloses: |
| But never, never on our graves, |
| Heaped beside the
glimmering waves, |
| Shall fall the leaves of damask roses. |
| For neither Death nor Change comes near us, |
| And
all listless hours fear us, |
| And we fear no dawning morrow, |
| Nor the grey wandering osprey Sorrow. |
|
|
|
|
| The
dance wound through the windless woods; |
| The ever-summered solitudes; |
| Until the tossing arms
grew still |
| Upon the woody central hill; |
| And, gathered in a panting band, |
| We flung on high each waving
hand, |
| And sang unto the starry broods. |
| In our raised eyes there flashed a glow |
| Of milky brightness to
and fro |
| As thus our song arose: You stars, |
| Across your wandering ruby cars |
| Shake the loose reins: you
slaves of God, |
| He rules you with an iron rod, |
| He holds you with an iron bond, |
| Each one woven to the
other, |
| Each one woven to his brother |
| Like bubbles in a frozen pond; |
| But we in a lonely land abide |
| Unchainable
as the dim tide, |
| With hearts that know nor law nor rule, |
| And hands that hold no wearisome
tool, |
| Folded in love that fears no morrow, |
| Nor the grey wandering osprey Sorrow. |
|
|
|
|
| O Patrick! for a hundred
years |
| I chased upon that woody shore |
| The deer, the badger, and the boar. |
| O Patrick! for a hundred
years |
| At evening on the glimmering sands, |
| Beside the piled-up hunting spears, |
| These now outworn and
withered hands |
| Wrestled among the island bands. |
| O Patrick! for a hundred years |
| We went a-fishing in
long boats |
| With bending sterns and bending bows, |
| And carven figures on their prows |
| Of bitterns and
fish-eating stoats. |
| O Patrick! for a hundred years |
| The gentle Niamh was my wife; |
| But now two things
devour my life; |
| The things that most of all I hate: |
| Fasting and prayers. |
|
|
|
|
| S. Patrick. Tell on. |
|
|
|
|
| Oisin. Yes,
yes, |
| For these were ancient Oisins fate |
| Loosed long ago from Heavens gate, |
| For his last days to lie
in wait. |
|
|
|
|
| When one day by the tide I stood, |
| I found in that forgetfulness |
| Of dreamy foam a staff of wood |
| From
some dead warriors broken lance: |
| I turned it in my hands; the stains |
| Of war were on it, and I wept, |
| Remembering
how the Fenians stept |
| Along the blood-bedabbled plains, |
| Equal to good or grievous chance: |
| Thereon
young Niamh softly came |
| And caught my hands, but spake no word |
| Save only many times my
name, |
| In murmurs, like a frighted bird. |
| We passed by woods, and lawns of clover, |
| And found the horse
and bridled him, |
| For we knew well the old was over. |
| I heard one say, His eyes grow dim |
| With all the
ancient sorrow of men; |
| And wrapped in dreams rode out again |
| With hoofs of the pale findrinny |
| Over
the glimmering purple sea. |
| Under the golden evening light, |
| The Immortals moved among the fountains |
| By
rivers and the woods old night; |
| Some danced like shadows on the mountains, |
| Some wandered ever
hand in hand; |
| Or sat in dreams on the pale strand, |
| Each forehead like an obscure star |
| Bent down above
each hookèd knee, |
| And sang, and with a dreamy gaze |
| Watched where the sun in a saffron blaze |
| Was
slumbering half in the sea-ways; |
| And, as they sang, the painted birds |
| Kept time with their bright wings
and feet; |
| Like drops of honey came their words, |
| But fainter than a young lambs bleat. |
|
|
|
|
| An old man stirs
the fire to a blaze, |
| In the house of a child, of a friend, of a brother. |
| He has over-lingered his welcome; the
days, |
| Grown desolate, whisper and sigh to each other; |
| He hears the storm in the chimney above, |
| And
bends to the fire and shakes with the cold, |
| While his heart still dreams of battle and love, |
| And the cry
of the hounds on the hills of old. |
|
|
|
|
| But we are apart in the grassy places, |
| Where care cannot trouble the
least of our days, |
| Or the softness of youth be gone from our faces, |
| Or loves first tenderness die in our
gaze. |
| The hare grows old as she plays in the sun |
| And gazes around her with eyes of brightness; |
| Before
the swift things that she dreamed of were done |
| She limps along in an aged whiteness; |
| A storm
of birds in the Asian trees |
| Like tulips in the air a-winging, |
| And the gentle waves of the summer seas, |
| That
raise their heads and wander singing, |
| Must murmur at last, Unjust, unjust; |
| And My speed is
a weariness, falters the mouse, |
| And the kingfisher turns to a ball of dust, |
| And the roof falls in of his
tunnelled house. |
| But the love-dew dims our eyes till the day |
| When God shall come from the sea with
a sigh |
| And bid the stars drop down from the sky, |
| And the moon like a pale rose wither away. |
|
|
|
|