(kJ~. i i : IRISH POETS OF TO-DAY AN ANTHOLOGY IRISH POETS OF TO-DAY AN ANTHOLOGY COMPILED BY L. D'O. WALTERS E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY 68 1 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK {All rights rexn-ut) HBNTEB IN GRBA7 BIOTA IX TO MY SON AND A. E. 2060766 NOTE The majority of these poems have been selected by me, but in a feio instances the poet himself has expressed a ^msh that some particular poem or poems should be Included, and I have abided readily by his choice. My thanks to both Authors and Pub- lishers will be found on another page, but here I would thank expressly A. E., Messrs. Maunsel & Roberts, and The Talbot Press for the help they have given me, and for the courtesy they have shoivn me, while I have been compiling this Anthology. L. D'O. WALTERS. CONTENTS Arranged under namts of Authors A. E. PAGE A CALL ... ... ... ... ... 17 AWAKENING ... ... ... ... 18 CARROWMORE... ... ... ... ... 19 IN THE WOMB ... ... ... ... 21 THE GIFT ... ... ... ... ... 22 THE VISION OF LOVE ... ... ... 23 BOYD, THOMAS TO THE LEANAN SIDHE ... ... ... 24 CAMPBELL, JOSEPH THE OLD WOMAN ... ... ... ... 26 CHALMERS, PATRICK R. THE ROAD ... ... ... ... ... 27 CHESSON, NORA THE SHORT CUT TO ROSSES ... ... 29 CLARKE, AUSTIN THE VENGEANCE OF FiONN. Part VI, lines 19-71 30 COLUM, PADRAIC A CRADLE SONG ... ... ... ... 33 A DROVER ... ... ... ... ... 34 AN OLD WOMAN OF THE ROADS ... ... 36 COUSINS, JAMES H. HIGH AND LOW ... ... ... ... 38 THE CORNCRAKE .. ... 39 io CONTENTS DOAK, H. L. PAGE THE BEGGAR ... ... 40 FIGGIS, DARRELL BOGAC BAN ... ... ... ... 41 INI8GALLUN ... ... ... ... ... 43 GORE-BOOTH, EVA TO DORA SIGER8ON SHORTER. "THE SAD YEARS" 44 GREGORY, FABRIC DOUBT OF REMEMBRANCE ... ... ... 45 THE DREAM -TELLER ... ... ... 46 THE WARNIN'S ... ... ... ... 47 HUME, ISOBEL (I. H. FISHER) HOME-COMING ... ... ... ... 48 THE SLEEPER ... 49 HYDE, DOUGLAS IF I WERE TO GO WEST ... ... ... 50 RINGLETED YOUTH OF MY LOVK ... ... 52 THE COOLEEN, OR COOLUN ... ... 54 JOHNSON, LIONEL DEAD ... ... ... ... ... 56 TO MORFYDD ... ... ... ... 57 " TO WEEP IRISH " ... ... ... ... 59 LEDWIDGE, FRANCIS DESIRE IN SPRING ... ... ... 60 MY MOTHER .. ... 01 CONTENTS 1 1 LESLIE, SHANE HUM FLEET STREET ... ... ... ... 62 FOREST SONG ... ... ... ... 63 HOLY CROSS ... ... ... ... 64 MUCKISH MOUNTAIN ... ... ... ... 66 LETTS, W. M. BOYS .... ... ... ... ... 67 IN THE STREET ... ... ... ... 68 IRISH SKIES ... ... ... ... 69 THE HARBOUR ... ... ... ... 71 LYSAGHT, EDWARD E. THE MARCH FAIR... ... ... ... 73 MACDONAGH, THOMAS TO EOGHAN ... ... ... ... ... 76 MACENTEE, JOHN FRANCIS I MADE MY LOVE A LITTLE SECRET HOUSE... 77 MACGILL, PATRICK DEDICATION ... ... ... ... ... 79 MITCHELL, SUSAN THE LIVING CHALICE ... ... ... 82 "O'NEILL, MOIRA" CORRYMEELA ... ... ... ... ... 83 O'SULLIVAN, SEUMAS THE ROSSES ... ... ... ... 85 THE TWILIGHT PEOPLE . 86 12 CONTENTS PEARSE, P. H. PAGB A WOMAN OF THE MOUNTAIN KEENS HER SON 87 THE WAYFARER ... ... ... ... 89 PLUNKETT, JOSEPH M. WHITE DOVE OF THE WILD DARK EYES ... 90 ROLLESTON, T. W. SONG OF MAELDUIN ... ... ... ... 91 THE DEAD AT CLONMACNOI8 ... ... 93 ROWLEY, R. THINKIN' LONG ... ... ... ... 94 WITCHCRAFT ... ... ... ... 95 SIGERSON, DORA CAN DOOV DEELISH ... ... ... ... 96 THE COMFORTERS... ... ... ... 97 STEPHENS, JAMES BLUE STARS AND GOLD ... ... ... 98 IN THE POPPY FIELD ... ... ... 99 O'CONNELL BRIDGE ... ... ... ... 100 STEPHEN'S GREEN ... ... ... 101 THE RED-HAIRED MAN'S WIFE... ... ... 102 THE SNARE ... ... ... ... 104 TRENCH, HERBERT A SONG TO AROLILIA, DWELLER BY THE FOUNTAIN 105 EPITAPH ON AN INFANT ... ... ... 107 SONG OF THE VINE IN ENGLAND ... ... 108 WHO ART THOU, STARRY GHOST ... ... 112 CONTENTS 13 TYNAN, KATHARINE FAREWELL THE OLD LOVE PAGE 113 114 THE PRAYER 116 YEATS, W. B. DOWN BY THE SALLEY GARDENS ... 117 RUNNING TO PARADISE 118 THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE ... ... 120 THE SORROW OF LOVE 121 THE WILD SWANS AT COOLE ... ... 122 TO THE ROSE UPON THE ROOD OF TIME 124 WHEN YOU ARE OLD ... ... ... ... 126 IRISH POETS OF TO-DAY AN ANTHOLOGY A. E. 17 A CALL DUSK its ash-grey blossoms sheds on violet skies, Over twilight mountains where the heart songs rise, Rise and fall and fade away from earth to air. Earth renews the music sweeter. Oh, come there. Come, acushla, come, as in ancient times Rings aloud the underland with faery chimes. Down the unseen ways as strays each tinkling fleece Winding ever onward to a fold of peace, So my dreams go straying in a land more fair; Half I tread the dew-wet grasses, half wander there. Fade your glimmering eyes in a world grown cold ; Come, acushla, with me to the mountains old. There the bright ones call us waving to and fro Come, my children, with me to the ancient go. i8 A. E. AWAKENING THE lights shone down the street In the long blue close of day : A boy's heart beat sweet, sweet, As it flowered in its dreamy clay. Beyond the dazzling throng And above the towers of men The stars made him long, long, To return to their light again. They lit the wondrous years And his heart within was gay ; But a life of tears, tears, He had won for himself that day. A. E. 19 CARROWMORE IT'S a lonely road through bogland to the lake at Carrowmore, And a sleeper there lies dreaming where the water laps the shore; Though the moth-wings of the twilight in their purples are unfurled, Yet his sleep is filled with music by the masters of the world. There's a hand is white as silver that is fondling with his hair : There are glimmering feet of sunshine that are dancing by him there : And half-open lips of faery that were dyed a faery red In their revels where the Hazel Tree its holy clusters shed. " Come away," the red lips whisper, " all the world is weary now; 'Tis the twilight of the ages and it's time to quit the plough. Oh, the very sunlight's weary ere it lightens up the dew, And its gold is changed and faded before it falls to you. 20 A. E. " Though your colleen's heart be tender, a tenderer heart is near. What's the starlight in her glances when the stars are shining clear ? Who would kiss the fading shadow when the flower- face glows above ? Tis the beauty of all Beauty that is calling for your love." Oh ! the great gates of the mountain have opened once again, And the sound of song and dancing falls upon the ears of men, And the Land of Youth lies gleaming, flushed with rainbow light and mirth, And the old enchantment lingers in the honey-heart of earth. A. E. 21 IN THE WOMB STILL rests the heavy share on the dark soil : Upon the black mould thick the dew-damp lies : The horse waits patient : from his lowly toil The ploughboy to the morning lifts his eyes. The unbudding hedgerows dark against day's fires Glitter with gold-lit crystals : on the rim Over the unregarding city's spires The lonely beauty shines alone for him. And day by day the dawn or dark enfolds And feeds with beauty eyes that cannot see How in her womb the mighty mother moulds The infant spirit for eternity. 22 A.E. THE GIFT I THOUGHT, beloved, to have brought to you A gift of quietness and ease and peace, Cooling your brow as with the mystic dew Dropping from the twilight trees. Homeward I go not yet ; the darkness grows ; Not mine the voice to still with peace divine : From the first fount the stream of quiet flows Through other hearts than mine. Yet of my night I give to you the stars, And of my sorrow here the sweetest gains, And out of hell, beyond its iron bars, My scorn of all its pains. A E. 23 THE VISION OF LOVE THE twilight fleeted away in pearl on the stream, And night, like a diamond dome, stood still in our dream. Your eyes like burnished stones or as stars were bright With the sudden vision that made us one with the night. We loved in infinite spaces, forgetting here The breasts that were lit with life and the lips so near ; Till the wizard willows waved in the wind and drew Me away from the fulness of love and down to you. Our love was so vast that it filled the heavens up : But the soft white fear I held was an empty cup, When the willows called me back to earth with their sigh, And we moved as shades through the deep that was you and I. 24 THOMAS BOYD TO THE LEANXN SIDHE ' WHERE is thy lovely perilous abode ? In what strange phantom-land Glimmer the fairy turrets whereto rode The ill-starred poet band ? Say, in the Isle of Youth hast thou thy home, The sweetest singer there, Stealing on winged steed across the foam Through the moonlit air ? Or, where the mists of bluebell float beneath The red stems of the pine, And sunbeams strike thro' shadow, dost thou breathe The word that makes him thine ? Or by the gloomy peaks of Erigal, Haunted by storm and cloud, Wing past, and to thy lover there let fall His singing-robe and shroud ? Or, is thy palace entered thro' some cliff When radiant tides are full, And round thy lover's wandering, starlit skiff, Coil in luxurious lull ? i "The Fairy Bride," pronounced Lenawn Shee. THOMAS BOYD 25 And would he, entering on the brimming flood, See caverns vast in height, And diamond columns, crowned with leaf and bud, Glow in long lanes of light, And there, the pearl of that great glittering shell Trembling, behold thee lone, Now weaving in slow dance an awful spell, Now still upon thy throne ? Thy beauty ! ah, the eyes that pierce him thro* Then melt as in a dream ; The voice that sings the mysteries of the blue And all that Be and Seem ! Thy lovely motions answering to the rhyme That ancient Nature sings, That keeps the stars in cadence for all time, And echoes thro' all things ! Whether he sees thee thus, or in his dreams, Thy light makes all lights dim ; An aching solitude from henceforth seems The world of men to him. Thy luring song, above the sensuous roar, He follows with delight, Shutting behind him Life's last gloomy door, And fares into the Night. 26 JOSEPH CAiMPBELL THE OLD WOMAN As a white candle In a holy place, So is the beauty Of an aged face. As the spent radiance Of the winter sun, So is a woman With her travail done. Her brood gone from her And her thoughts as still As the waters Under a ruined mill. PATRICK R. CHALMERS 27 THE ROAD " Now where are ye goin'," ses I, " wid the shawl An' cotton umbrella an' basket an* all ? Would ye not wait for McMullen's machine, Wid that iligant instep befittin' a queen ? Oh, you wid the wind-soft grey eye wid a wile in it, You wid the lip wid the troublesome smile in it, Sure, the road's wet, ivery rain-muddied mile in it " Ah, the Saints 'II be kapin' me petticoats clean ! " "But," ses I, "would ye like it to meet Clancy's bull, Or the tinks poachin' rabbits above Slieve-na-coul ? An' the ford at Kilmaddy is big wid the snows, An' the whisht Little People that wear the green close, They'd run from the bog to be makin' a catch o' ye, The king o' them's wishful o' weddin' the match o' ye, 'Twould be long, if they did, 'ere ye lifted the latch o' ye " " What fairy's to touch her that sings as she goes I " 28 PATRICK R. CHALMERS " Ah, where are ye goin'," ses I, " wid the shawl, An' the grey eyes a-dreamin' beneath it an' all ? The road by the mountain's a long one, depend Ye'll be done for, alannah, ere reachin' the end ; Ye'll be bate wid the wind on each back-breakin' bit on it, Wet wid the puddles and lamed with the grit on it, Since lonesome ye're layin' yer delicut fit on "Sure whin's a road lonesome that's stepped wid a friend?" That's stepped wid a friend ? Who did Bridgy intend ? Still 't was me that went wid her right on to the end! NORA CHESSON 29 THE SHORT CUT TO ROSSES BY the short cut to Rosses a fairy girl I met, I was taken in her beauty as a fish is in a net. The fern uncurled to look at her, so very fair was she, With her hair as bright as seaweed new-drawn from out the sea. By the short cut to Rosses ('twas on the first of May) I heard the fairies piping, and they piped my heart away; They piped till I was mad with joy, but when I was alone I found my heart was piped away and in my breast a stone. By the short cut to Rosses 'tis I'll go never more, Lest she should also steal my soul that stole my heart before, Lest she take my soul and crush it like a dead leaf in her hand, For the short cut to Rosses is the way to Fairyland. 3 AUSTIN CLARKE THE VENGEANCE OF FIONN Part VI. Lines 19-71. IN the sleepy forest where the bluebells Smouldered dimly through the night, Diarmuid saw the leaves like glad green waters At daybreak flowing into light, And exultant from his love upspringing Strode with the sun upon the height. Glittering on the hilltops He saw the sunlit rain Drift as around the spindle A silver-threaded skein, And the brown mist whitely breaking Where arrowy torrents reached the plain. A maddened moon Leapt in his heart and whirled the crimson tide Of his blood until it sang aloud of battle Where the querns of dark death grind, Till it sang and scorned in pride Love the froth-pale blossom of the boglands That flutters on the waves of the wandering wind. AUSTIN CLARKE 31 Flower-quiet in the rush-strewn sheiling At the dawntime Grainne lay, While beneath the birch-topped roof the sunlight Groped upon its way And stooped above her sleeping white body With a wasp-yellow ray. The hot breath of the day awoke her, And wearied of its heat She wandered out by noisy elms On the cool mossy peat, Where the shadowed leaves like pecking linnets Nodded around her feet. She leaned and saw in pale-grey waters, By twisted hazel boughs, Her lips like heavy drooping poppies In a rich redness drowse, Then swallow-lightly touched the ripples Until her wet lips were Burning as ripened rowan berries Through the white winter air. Lazily she lingered Gazing so, As the slender osiers Where the waters flow, As green twigs of sally Swaying to and fro. 32 AUSTIN CLARKE Sleepy moths fluttered In her dark eyes, And her lips grew quieter Than lullabies. Swaying with the reedgrass Over the stream Lazily she lingered Cradling a dream. PADRAIC COLUM 33 A CRADLE SONG O, MEN from the fields ! Come gently within. Tread softly, softly, O ! men coming in. Mavourneen is going From me and from you, Where Mary will fold him With mantle of blue ! From reek of the smoke And cold of the floor, And the peering of things Across the half-door. O, men from the fields ! Soft, softly come thro'. Mary puts round him Her mantle of blue. 34 PADRAIC COLUM A DROVER To Meath of the pastures, From wet hills of the sea, Through Leitrim and Longford, Go my cattle and me. I hear in the darkness Their slipping and breathing I name them the bye-ways They're to pass without heeding ; Then the wet, winding roads, Brown bogs with black water ; And my thoughts on white ships And the King o' Spain's daughter. O ! farmer, strong farmer ! You can spend at the fair; But your face you must turn To your crops and your care. And soldiers red soldiers ! You've seen many lands ; But you walk two by two," And by captain's commands. PADRAIC COLUM 35 O ! the smell of the beasts, The wet wind in the morn ; And the proud and hard earth Never broken for corn ; And the crowds at the fair, The herds loosened and blind, Loud words and dark faces And the wild blood behind. (0 ! strong men, with your best I would strive breast to breast. I could quiet your herds With my words, with my words.) I will bring you, my kine, Where there's grass to the knee ; But you'll think of scant croppings Harsh with salt of the sea. 36 PADRAIC COLUM AN OLD WOMAN OF THE ROADS O ! to have a little house ! To own the hearth and stool and all ! The heaped up sods upon the fire, The pile of turf against the wall ! To have a clock with weights and chains And pendulum swinging up and down ! A dresser filled with shining delph, Speckled and white and blue and brown ! I could be busy all the day Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor, And fixing on their shelf again My white and blue and speckled store ! I could be quiet there at night Beside the fire and by myself, Sure of a bed and loth to leave The ticking clock and the shining delph ! Och ! but I'm weary of mist and dark, And roads where there's never a house nor bush, And tired I am of bog and road, And the crying wind and the lonesome hush ! PADRAIC COLUM 37 And I am praying to God on high, And I am praying Him night and day, For a little house a house of my own Out of the wind's and the rain's way. 38 JAMES H. COUSINS HIGH AND LOW HE stumbled home from Clifden fair With drunken song, and cheeks aglow. Yet there was something in his air That told of kingship long ago. I sighed and inly cried With grief that one so high should fall so low. He snatched a flower and sniffed its scent, And waved it toward the sunset sky. Some old sweet rapture thro' him went And kindled in his bloodshot eye. I turned and inly burned With joy that one so low should rise so high. JAMES H. COUSINS 39 THE CORNCRAKE I HEAED him faintly, far away, (Break! Break! Break! Break!) Calling to the dawn of day, " Break ! Break ! " I heard him in the yellow morn (Shake! Shake ! Shake ! Shake!) Shouting thro' the rustling corn, " Shake ! Shake ! " I heard him near where one lay dead (Ache ! Ache !) Crying among poppies red, " Ache ! Ache ! Ache ! Ache ! " And where a solemn yew-tree waves (Wake! Wake!) All night he shouts among the graves, " Wake ! Wake ! Wake ! Wake ! " 4 o H. L. DOAK THE BEGGAR IF I had a farm, an' no need to be beggin' my bread, I'd work till my fingers were all wore away to the bone. It wouldn't be me you would see lyin' long in my bed; I'd be out by the squeak o' the day, lookin' after my own. But the pride of industry flies out at the raggedy holes In a coat an' a trousers an' maybe the half of a shirt. You rich, let you wear to a shadow your bodies an' souls ; The beggar is happy to lie on his back in the dirt. From H, L. Doatfs " The Three-Rock Road," by kind permission of The Talbot Press, Ltd., Dublin. DARRELL FIGGIS 41 BOGAC BAN A WOMAN had I seen as I rode by, Stacking her turf and chanting an old song ; But now her voice came to me like a cry Wailing an old immeasurable wrong, Riding the road thro' Bogac ban. Like a grey ribbon over the dark world, Lying along the bog that rose each side, The white road strayed upon the earth, and curled, Staying its journey where the hills abide, Riding the road thro' Bogac ban. It was not that the Night had laid her cloak About the valley, going thro' the sky, And yet a dimness like a distant smoke Had fallen on the Earth as I rode by. Riding the road thro' Bogac ban. Sweeping the sides of the mountains gaunt and high, Floating about their faces in the pool, A shadowy presence with a rustling sigh Crept thro' the valley till the valley was full : My horse's hoofs fell softly as on wool : Riding the road thro' Bogac ban. 42 DARRELL FIGGIS In musical measures like an echo dim The hosting held its secret path unseen : Sliabh Mor looked down to Mam, and Mam to him Looked up, with Loch na n'Ean between : Riding the road thro' Bogac ban. A new world and a new scene mixed its power With the old world and the old scene of Earth's face : A doorway had been folded back an hour ; And silver lights fell with a secret grace Where I endeavoured the white path to trace Riding the road thro' Bogac ban. Within my mind a sudden joy had birth, For I had found an infinite company there : The hosting of the companies of the earth, The hosting of the companies of the air, Riding the road thro' Bogac ban. The white, strange road thro' Bogac ban. DARRELL FIGGIS 43 INISGALLUN THE winds are roaring out of the West Where the clouds are in stormy saffron drest, And the curlew and wild-geese are calling and crying Over the straits in Inisgallun, The heron and cormorant wailing and sighing, Mingling a wild and an endless tune. The winds are roaring out of the West Over the waters of strife and unrest, The shrieking rain in the low pools falling, The strong waves beating a ceaseless rune, And the heron and curlew and wild-geese calling, Vainly lamenting in Inisgallun. The froth and fume of the maddened sea Spit thro' the torn air ceaselessly ; And the dark low bog in anguish crying, And the heather wailing in bitter pain ; For the winds from out of the West are flying And the Earth will never find peace again. 44 EVA GORE-BOOTH TO DORA SIGERSON SHORTER " THE SAD YEARS " You whom I never knew, Who lived remote, afar, Yet died of the grief that tore my heart, Shall we live through the ages alone, apart, Or meet where the souls of the sorrowful are Telling the tale on some secret star, How your death from the root of my sorrow grew You whom I never knew. Nay, perhaps in the coming years, Down here on our earth again, We shall meet as strangers on some strange shore, And dream we have known one another before, In a past life, weeping over the slain Because of a thrill and a throb of pain, And eyes grown suddenly salt with tears . . . Perhaps ... in the coming years. . . . PADRIC GREGORY 45 DOUBT OF REMEMBRANCE IF I, who loathe my remnant of sad days, Could make her hear who lies beneath the sod, Could call her spirit from the starry-ways, Could pluck her from the shielding Arms of God. Could let her breathe again the April wind, Or hear the patt'ring of soft summer rain, Should call her back to all she left behind . . . Oh, would her coming give my heart more pain ? Oh, would her eyes scan all the ambered South, And sweep, tear-filled, the dark hill-shadowing sea, And nothing else ? Oh, would she kiss my mouth ? Oh, God ! oh God ! Would she remember me ? 46 PADRIC GREGORY THE DREAM-TELLER I WAS a dreamer : I dreamed A dream at the dark of dawn, When the stars hung over the mountains And morn was wan. I dreamed my dream at morn, At noon, at the even-light, But I told it to you, dark woman, One soft glad night. And the sharing of my dream Has brought me only this : The gnawing pain of loss, the ache For your mouth to kiss, I walked the high hills last night, And lo, where the pale stars gleam, God's cold Voice spake : " If you dream again, Tell none your dream ; Tell none your dream ! " PADRIC GREGORY 47 THE WARNIN'S OCHANNEE, ochannee, Ye say he's dead. God rest his sowl ! But mind ye this : I thought he'd be ; For yisterday at dinner-time our ouP Black clock, that's sittin' on the kitchen shelf, An' hasnae worked for years, struck three ; An' the Blessid Mother o' God, herself Alone, knows how it frightened me. Thin last night, whin I wint tae bed, A score o' times I crossed m'self ; For some strange dog comminced tae howl Furmust the dure ; An' in the hen-house all the fowl Seemed restless ; an' my beads I said For William John ; for I felt sure That he was dead. Ochannee, ochannee, God rest his soul ! 48 ISOBEL HUME (I. H. Fisher) HOME-COMING I AM come home again Back to the old grey town, Battling with wind and rain As I go up and down. I am come from the South, With never a greeting said, And no one to kiss my mouth Now that my love is dead. As I go up and down In the loud wind and rain, Through the familiar town He walks with me again. A woman robbed of her youth The ghost of a lad long dead, With never a kiss on my mouth, And never a greeting said. ISOBEL HUME (I. H. Fisher) 49 THE SLEEPER UNDER white eyelids! The dreams come and go, Kiss her on her rosy mouth, And wake her so. Under white eyelids The dreams are all done, Fold her hands across her breftst- Let her sleep on. 50 DOUGLAS HYDE IF I WERE TO GO WEST IF I were to go west, it is from the west I would not come, On the hill that was highest, 'tis on it I would stand, It is the fragrant branch I would soonest pluck, And it is my own love I would quickest follow. My heart is as black as a sloe, Or as a black coal that would be burnt in a forge, As the sole of a shoe upon white halls, And there is great melancholy over my laugh. My heart is bruised, broken, Like ice upon the top of water, As it were a cluster of nuts after their breaking, Or a young maiden after her marrying. My love is of the colour of the blackberries, And the colour of the raspberry on a fine sunny day. Of the colour of the darkest heath-berries of the mountain, And often has there been a black head upon a bright body. DOUGLAS HYDE 51 Time it is for me to leave this- town, The stone is sharp in it, and the mould is cold ; It was in it I got a voice (blame), without riches And a heavy word from the band who back-bite. I denounce love ; woe is she who gave it To the son of yon woman, who never understood it. My heart in my middle, sure he has left it black, And I do not see him on the street or in any place. 52 DOUGLAS HYDE RINGLETED YOUTH OF MY LOVE RINGLETED youth of my love, With thy locks bound loosely behind thee, You passed by the road above, But you never came in to find me ; Where were the harm for you If you came for a little to see me, Your kiss is a wakening dew Were I ever so ill or so dreamy. If I had golden store I would make a nice little boreen To lead straight up to his door, The door of the house of my storeen ; Hoping to God not to miss The sound of his footfall in it, I have waited so long for his kiss That for days I have slept not a minute. I thought, O my love ! You were so As the moon is, or sun on a fountain, And I thought after that you were snow, The cold snow on top of the mountain ; DOUGLAS HYDE 53 And I thought after that, you were more Like God's lamp shining to find me, Or the bright star of knowledge before, And the star of knowledge behind me. You promised me high-heeled shoes, And satin and silk, my storeen, And to follow me, never to lose, Though the ocean were round us roaring ; Like a bush in a gap in a wall I am now left lonely without thee, And this house I grow dead of, is all That I see around or about me. 54 DOUGLAS HYDE THE COOLEEN, OR COOLUN A HONEY mist on a day of frost, in a dark oak wood, And love for thee in my heart in me, thou bright, white, and good ; Thy slender form, soft and warm, thy red lips apart, Thou hast found me, and hast bound me, and put grief in my heart. In fair-green and market, men mark thee, bright, young, and merry, Though thou hurt them like foes with the rose of thy blush of the berry ; Her cheeks are a poppy, her eye it is Cupid's helper, But each foolish man dreams that its beams for himself are. Whoe'er saw the Cooleen in a cool dewy meadow On a morning in summer in sunshine and shadow ; All the young men go wild for her, my childeen, my treasure. But now let them go mope, they've no hope to possess her. DOUGLAS HYDE 55 Let us roam, O my darling, afar through the moun- tains, Drink milk of the goat, wine and bulcaun in fountains ; With music and play every day from my lyre, And leave to come rest on my breast when you tire. 56 LIONEL JOHNSON DEAD To Olivier Georges Destree IN Merioneth, over the sad moor Drives the rain, the cold wind blows : Past the ruinous church door, The poor procession without music goes. Lonely she wandered out her hour, and died. Now the mournful curlew cries Over her, laid down beside Death's lonely people : lightly down she lies. In Merioneth, the wind lives and wails, On from hill to lonely hill ; Down the loud, triumphant gales, A spirit cries Be strong ! and cries Be still I LIONEL JOHNSON 57 TO MORFYDD A VOICE on the winds, A voice by the waters, Wanders and cries : Oh ! what are the winds ? And what are the waters? Mine are your eyes! Western the winds are, And western the waters, Where the light lies : Oh ! what are the winds ? And what are the waters? Mine are your eyes! Cold, cold, grow the winds, And wild grow the waters, Where the sun dies : Oh! what are the winds? And what are the waters? Mine are your eyes! 58 LIONEL JOHNSON And down the night winds, And down the night waters, The music flies : Oh! what are the winds? And what are the waters? Cold be the winds, And wild be the waters, So mine be your eyes i LIONEL JOHNSON 59 "TO WEEP IRISH" To the Rev. Dr. William Barry LONG Irish melancholy of lament ! Voice of the sorrow, that is on the sea : Voice of that ancient mourning music sent From Rama childless : the world wails in thee. The sadness of all beauty at the heart, The appealing of all souls unto the skies, The longing locked in each man's breast apart, Weep in the melody of thine old cries. Mother of tears ! sweet Mother of sad sons ! All mourners of the world weep Irish, weep Ever with thee : while burdened time still runs, Sorrows reach God through thee, and ask for sleep. And though thine own unsleeping sorrow yet Live to the end of burdened time, in pain : Still sing the song of sorrow ! and forget The sorrow, in the solace, of the strain. 60 FRANCIS LEDWIDGE DESIRE IN SPRING I LOVE the cradle songs the mothers sing In lonely places when the twilight drops, The slow endearing melodies that bring Sleep to the weeping lids ; and, when she stops, I love the roadside birds upon the tops Of dusty hedges in a world of Spring. And when the sunny rain drips from the edge Of midday wind, and meadows lean one way, And a long whisper passes thro' the sedge, Beside the broken water let me stay, While these old airs upon my memory play, And silent changes colour up the hedge. FRANCIS LEDWIDGE 61 MY MOTHER GOD made my mother on an April day, From sorrow and the mist along the sea, Lost birds' and wanderers' songs and ocean spray, And the moon loved her wandering jealously. Beside the ocean's din she combed her hair, Singing the nocturne of the passing ships, Before her earthly lover found her there And kissed away the music from her lips. She came unto the hills and saw the change That brings the swallow and the geese in turns. But there was not a grief she deemed strange, For there is that in her which always mourns. Kind heart she has for all on hill or wave Whose hopes grew wings like ants to fly away. I bless the God Who such a mother gave This poor bird-hearted singer of a day. 62 SHANE LESLIE FLEET STREET I NEVER see the newsboys run Amid the whirling street, With swift untiring feet, To cry the latest venture done, But I expect one day to hear Them cry the crack of doom And risings from the tomb, With great Archangel Michael near; And see them running from the Fleet As messengers of God, With Heaven's tidings shod About their brave unwearied feet. SHANE LESLIE 63 FOREST SONG ALL around I heard the whispering larches Swinging to the low-lipped wind ; God, they piped, is lilting in our arches, For He loveth leafen kind. Ferns I heard, unfolding from their slumber, Say confiding to the reed : God well knoweth us, Who loves to number Us and all our fairy seed. Voices hummed as of a multitude Crowding from their lowly sod ; 'Twas the stricken daisies where I stood, Crying to the daisies' God. 64 SHANE LESLIE HOLY GROSS IT is the bare and leafless Tree Our sins once sowed on Calvary, And mockers digged with trembling knee- Holy Cross. It is the dead unpitying Wood, That like a crimson pillar stood, Where none unmoved unweeping could Holy Cross. O fearful sight foretold to man, The cloven spar, the sacred span, Whence God's atoning Blood once ran Holy Cross. It is the Holy Gibbet Tree, All stained with Love's last agony And marked with awful mystery Holy Cross. What stains are these incarnadine, What scars are these more red than wine Of more than human Passion sign ? Holy Cross. SHANE LESLIE 65 It is the sunless stricken Tree, Upon whose branches sore to see O mystery, died One of Three Holy Cross. What storm swept o'er its boughs that day, When God to God did sorely pray, And human guilt ebbed slow away Holy Cross. When earth shall smoke and sun shall flee, Alone unmoved o'er sinking sea Shall stand one all-redeeming Tree Holy Cross. 66 SHANE LESLIE MUCKISH MOUNTAIN LIKE a sleeping swine upon the skyline, Muckish, thou art shadowed out, Grubbing up the rubble of the ages With your broken, granite snout. Muckish, greatest pig in Ulster's oakwoods, Littered out of rock and fire, Deep you thrust your mottled flanks for cooling Underneath the peaty mire. Long before the Gael was young in Ireland, .You were ribbed and old and grey, Muckish, you have long outstayed his staying, You have seen him swept away. Muckish, you will not forget the people Of the laughing speech and eye, They who gave you name of Pig-back-mountain And the Heavens for a sty ! W. M. LETTS 67 BOYS I DO be thinking God must laugh The time He makes a boy ; All element the creatures are, And divilmint and joy. Careless and gay as a wad in a window, 1 Swift as a redshanks, and wild as a hare ; Heartscalds and torments but sorra a mother Has got one to spare. " Wad in a window." The bunch of rags so often seen fluttering from the broken windows of an Irish cabin ; hence the frequent use of this comparison. 68 W. M. LETTS IN THE STREET I'VE seen a woman kneeling down In the dirty street. An' she took no heed of her tattered gown, Or the broken boots on her feet ; An' she took no heed of the people there, Rich and poor that would stand and stare At a woman kneeling in prayer In the street. For the thing that she spied At the back of the great shop window pane Was a cross with a Figure crucified. She took no heed of the driving rain, An' thim that would turn to look again ; She took no heed of the noisy street, But knelt down there at her Saviour's feet. What matter at all what the place might be ? To one poor soul it was Calvary. W. M. LETTS 69 IRISH SKIES IN London here the streets are grey, an' grey the sky above ; I wish I were in Ireland to see the skies I love Pearl cloud, buff cloud, the colour of a dove. All day I travel English streets, but in my dreams I tread The far Glencullen road and see the soft sky over- head, Grey clouds, white clouds, the wind has shepherded. At night the London lamps shine bright, but what are they to me ? I've seen the moonlight in Glendhu, the stars above Glenchree The lamps of Heav'n give light enough for me. The city in the winter time puts on a shroud of smoke, But the sky above the Three rock was blue as Mary's cloak, Ruffled like dove's wings when the wind awoke. 7 o W. M. LETTS I dream I see the Wicklow hills by evening sunlight kissed, An' every glen and valley there brimful of radiant mist The jewelled sky topaz and amethyst. I wake to see the London streets, the sombre sky above, God's blessing on the far-off roads, and on the skies I love, Pearl feather, grey feather, wings of a dove. W. M. LETTS 71 THE HARBOUR I THINK if I lay dying in some land Where Ireland is no more than just a name, My soul would travel back to find that strand From whence it came. I'd see the harbour in the evening light, The old men staring at some distant ship, The fishing-boats they fasten left and right Beside the slip. The sea-wrack lying on the wind-swept shore, The grey thorn bushes growing in the sand Our Wexford coast from Arklow to Cahore My native land. The little houses climbing up the hill, Sea daisies growing in the sandy grass, The tethered goats that wait large-eyed and still To watch you pass. The women at the well with dripping pails, Their men colloguing by the harbour wall, The coils of rope, the nets, the old brown sails, I'd know them all. 72 W. M. LETTS And then the Angelus I'd surely see The swaying bell against a golden sky, So God, Who kept the love of home in me, Would let me die. EDWARD E. LYSAGHT 73 THE MARCH FAIR THREE o'clock, and with a start I waken, cursing fair and mart. And the bullocks, if they knew, Surely would be cursing too ; Seven English miles have they, Long before the dawn of day, More than seven miles to tramp. (Where the divil is the lamp ?) Bullocks ! In your innocence Yours a day of abstinence. Two long grey hours 'twill take of you Before you land in Killaloe. Then when we're there we'll stand forlorn Like long wooled sheep that have been shorn, Too early in the summer. 'Tis eight o'clock and ne'er a bid : What fools to come yet well we did, For out from yonder caravan, Where Mrs. Browne wields her tin-can And serves cold herrings, tea and bread To Michael, Paddy, Tom and Ned, There comes a man who's slep' it out : He's a shipper, there's no doubt. 74 EDWARD E. LYSAGHT I know him, sure, 'tis Johnny Curtin, He'll buy our cattle now for certain. I ask a hundred for the ten, He scans them slightingly and then He turned away without a word. I wink my eye to Mick, the herd. " Come here, I want you, Sir," cries he, " What is the bullocks' price to be ? " " They're not worth nine." But Jim Molony (We all know Jim, the poor old crony) Puts in his word without a smile : " I don't care which, but wait awhile Ask nine fifteen and cut a crown." " Is that the way you'd beat me down ? " John strikes my hand and goes away. And then comes back again to say He'll not break Jim Molony 's word. (We all say that, we're so absurd) And so at last the bargain's struck ; It's left to me about the luck. " Begob ! " says Mick, " for all his tricks They're dear enough at nine twelve six." So later on when we've been paid, We'll drink their health in lemonade. (The divil sweep those pledges.) Herded with others, scores and scores, Our bullocks, mixed with cows and stores, Are driven through the thronging lair Out to the railway station, where EDWARD F, LYSAGHT 75 Numbers of trucks, all just the same, Swallow the beasts we knew by name, Which lose in leaving Mick and me Their individuality. God ! on what venture ye embark, To feed at length some city clerk Whose widest world is Blackpool. 76 THOMAS MACDONAGH TO EOGHAN WILL you gaze after the dead, gaze into the grave ? Strain your eyes in the darkness, knowing it vain ? Strain your voice in the silence that never gave To any voice or yours an answer again ? She whom you loved long years is dead, and you Stay, and you cannot bear it and cry for her And life will cure this pain or death : you too Shall quiet lie where cries no echo stir. From Thomas MacDonagk's " Poems," by kind permission of the Talbot Press, Ltd., Dublin. JOHN FRANCIS MACENTEE 77 I MADE MY LOVE A LITTLE SECRET HOUSE I MADE my love a little secret house, Of emerald moss and silver birchen boughs, Wherein to while away the sunny hours ; And in the roof I set a bubble, bright With rainbow colours of the moon, and light, Soft, golden radiance of the dew-drenched flowers. I made my thoughts her silent servitors, Clad them in soft, sad, silvery gossamers, Weft in the twilight by a dryad sighing For a forsaken love. I draped the walls With blue-grey curtains of the night that falls, Star-sprinkled, when the autumn-time is dying. And all the little songs of love that die Unbirthed in the heart's satiety, The little whispers that the noisy world Hath deadened into silence : these I brought To be her minstrels, that her sleep be fraught With quietude, as flower in slumber furled. 78 JOHN FRANCIS MACENTEE And then I led her in. She gazed around, As though with all the quietness astound : She lifted up her little mouth to speak ; Tremoured a little, while her frightened eyes Grew bright, then dark, and dark, as daylight dies ; And life and colour faded from her cheek. She looked at me and said : " Ah, let me live, I love the sun, the mountain-winds that give Spontaneous struggle : all the white and red Of life. Dream-shackled, Love, I could not bide." Taking her hand I led my love outside And let her go. The dream I dreamed was dead. From J. F. MacEntee's "Poems," by kind permission of the Talbot Press, Ltd., Dublin. PATRICK MACGILL 79 DEDICATION I SPEAK with a proud tongue of the people who were And the people who are, The worthy of Ardara, the Rosses and Inishkeel, My kindred The people of the hills and the dark-haired passes My neighbours on the lift of the brae, In the lap of the valley. To them Slainthe ! I speak of the old men, The wrinkle-rutted, Who dodder about foot-weary For their day is as the day that has been and is no more Who warm their feet by the fire, And recall memories of the times that are gone ; Who kneel in the lamplight and pray For the peace that has been theirs And who beat one dry-veined hand against another Even in the sun For the coldness of death is on them. I speak of the old women Who danced to yesterday's fiddle And dance no longer. 8o PATRICK MACGILL They sit in a quiet place and dream And see visions Of what is to come, Of their issue, Which has blossomed to manhood and womanhood- And seeing thus They are happy For the day that was leaves no regrets, And peace is theirs, And perfection. I speak of the strong men Who shoulder their burdens in the hot day, Who stand on the market-place And bargain in loud voices, Showing their stock to the world. Straight the glance of their eyes Broad-shouldered, Supple. Under their feet the holms blossom, The harvest yields. And their path is of prosperity. I speak of the women, Strong-hipped, full-bosomed, Who drive the cattle to graze at dawn, Who milk the cows at dusk. Grace in their homes, And in the crowded ways Modest and seemly Mother of children ! PATRICK MACGILL 81 I speak of the children Of the many townlands, Blossoms of the Bogland, Flowers of the Valley, Who know not yesterday, nor to-morrow, And are happy, The pride of those who have begot them. And thus it is, Ever and always, In Ardara, the Rosses and Inishkeel Here, as elsewhere, The Weak, the Strong, and the Blossoming And thus my kindred. To them Slainthe. 82 SUSAN MITCHELL THE LIVING CHALICE THE Mother sent me on the holy quest Timid and proud and curiously dressed In vestures by her hand wrought wondrously ; An eager burning heart she gave to me. The Bridegroom's Feast was set and I drew nigh- Master of Life, Thy Cup has passed me by. Before new-dressed I from the Mother came, In dreams I saw the wondrous Cup of Flame ; Ah, Divine Chalice, how my heart drank deep, Waking I sought the Love I knew asleep. The Feast of Life was set and I drew nigh Master of Life, Thy Cup has passed me by. Eyes of the Soul, awake, awake and see Growing within the Ruby Radiant Tree, Sharp pain hath wrung the Clusters of my Vine ; My heart is rose-red with its brimmed wine. Thou hast new-set the Feast and I draw nigh Master of Life take me, Thy Cup am I. MOIRA O'NEILL" 83 CORRYMEELA OVER here in England I'm helpin' wi' the hay, An' I wisht I was in Ireland the livelong day ; Weary on the English hay, an' sorra take the wheat ! Och ! Corrymeela on' the blue sky over it. There's a deep dumb river flowin' by beyont the heavy trees, This livin' air is moithered wi' the hummin' o' the bees ; I wisht I'd hear the Claddagh burn go runnin' through the heat Past Corrymeela wi' the blue sky over it. The people that's in England is richer nor the Jews, There's not the smallest young gossoon but thravels in his shoes ! I'd give the pipe between me teeth to see a barefut child, Och ! Corrymeela an? the low south wind. Here's hands so full o' money an' hearts so full o' care, By the luck of love! I'd still go light for all I did go bare. " God save ye, colleen dhas," I said : the girl she thought me wild ! Far Corrymeela, an 1 the low south wind. 84 "MOIRA O'NEILL" D'ye mind me now, the song at night is mortial hard to raise, The girls are heavy goin' here, the boys are ill to plase ; When ones't I'm out this workin' hive, 'tis I'll be back again Aye, Corrymeela, in the same soft rain. The puff o' smoke from one ould roof before an English Town ! For a shaugh wid Andy Feelan here I'd give a silver crown, For a curl o' hair like Mollie's ye'll ask the like in vain, Sweet Corrymeela, an' the same soft rain. SEUMAS O'SULLIVAN 85 THE ROSSES MY sorrow that I am not by the little dun By the lake of the starlings at Rosses under the hill, And the larks there, singing over the fields of dew, Or evening there, and the sedges still. For plain I see now the length of the yellow sand, And Lissadell far off and its leafy ways, And the holy mountain whose mighty heart Gather into it all the coloured days. My sorrow that I am not by the little dun By the lake of the starlings at evening when all is still, And still in whispering sedges the herons stand, 'Tis there I would nestle at rest till the quivering moon Uprose in the golden quiet over the hill. 86 SEUMAS O'SULLIVAN THE TWILIGHT PEOPLE IT is a whisper among the hazel bushes ; It is a long, low, whispering voice that fills With a sad music the bending and swaying rushes ; It is a heart-beat deep in the quiet hills. Twilight people, why will you still be crying, Crying and calling to me out of the trees ? For under the quiet grass the wise are lying, And all the strong ones are gone over the seas. And I am old, and in my heart at your calling Only the old dead dreams a-fluttering go ; As the wind, the forest wind, in its falling Sets the withered leaves fluttering to and fro. P. H. PEARSE 87 A WOMAN OF THE MOUNTAIN KEENS HER SON (English Version) GRIEF on the death, it has blackened my heart : It has snatched my love and left me desolate, Without friend or companion under the roof of my house But this sorrow in the midst of me, and I keening. As I walked the mountain in the evening The birds spoke to me sorrowfully, The sweet snipe spoke and the voiceful curfew Relating to me that my darling was dead. I called to you and your voice I heard not, I called again and I got no answer, I kissed your mouth, and O God, how cold it was ! Ah, cold is your bed in the lonely churchyard. O green-sodded grave in which my child is, Little narrow grave, since you are his bed, My blessing on you, and thousands of blessings On the green sods that are over my treasure. 88 , P. H. PEARSE Grief on the death, it cannot be denied, It lays low, green and withered together, And O gentle little son, what tortures me is That your fair body should be making clay ! P. H. PEARSE 89 THE WAYFARER (English Version) THE beauty of the world hath made me sad, This beauty that will pass ; Sometimes my heart hath shaken with great joy To see a leaping squirrel in a tree, Or a red lady-bird upon a stalk, Or little rabbits in a field at evening, Lit by a slanting sun, Or some green hill where shadows drifted by Some quiet hill where mountainy man hath sown And soon would reap ; near to the gate of Heaven ; Or children with bare feet upon the sands Of some ebbed sea, or playing on the streets Of little towns in Connacht, Things young and happy. And then my heart hath told me : These will pass, Will pass and change, will die and be no more, Things bright and green, things young and happy ; And I have gone upon my way Sorrowful. 90 JOSEPH M. PLUNKETT WHITE DOVE OF THE WILD DARK EYES WHITE Dove of the wild dark eyes Faint silver flutes are calling From the night where the star-mists rise And fire-flies falling Tremble in starry wise, Is it you they are calling ? White Dove of the beating heart Shrill golden reeds are thrilling In the woods where the shadows start, While moonbeams, filling With dreams the floweret's heart Its dreams are thrilling. White Dove of the folded wings, Soft purple night is crying With the voice of fairy things For you, lest dying They miss your flashing wings, Your splendorous flying. From J. M. PlunketCs " Poems" by kind per- mission of the Talbot Press, Ltd., Dublin. T. W. ROLLESTON 91 SONG OF MAELDUIN THERE are veils that lift, there are bars that fall, There are lights that beckon, and winds that call Good-bye ! There are hurrying feet, and we dare not wait, For the hour is on us the hour of Fate, The circling hour of the flaming gate Good-bye good-bye good-bye ! Fair, fair they shine through the burning zone The rainbow gleams of a world unknown ; Good-bye ! And oh ! to follow, to seek, to dare, When, step by step, in the evening air Floats down to meet us the cloudy stair I Good-bye good-bye good-bye ! The cloudy stair of the Brig o' Dread Is the dizzy path that our feet must tread Good-bye ! O children of Time O Nights and Days, That gather and wonder and stand at gaze, And wheeling stars in your lonely ways, Good-bye good-bye good-bye ! 92 T. W. ROLLESTON The music calls and the gates unclose, Onward and onward the wild way goes Good-bye ! We die in the bliss of a great new birth, O fading phantoms of pain and mirth, O fading loves of the old green earth Good-bye good-bye good-bye ! T. W. ROLLESTON 93 THE DEAD AT CLONMACNOIS From the Irish of Enoch O' Gillan IN a quiet water'd land, a land of roses, Stands Saint Kieran's city fair : And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations Slumber there. There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblest Of the clan of Conn, Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham And the sacred knot thereon. There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara, There the sons of Cairbre sleep Battle-banners of the Gael, that in Kieran's plain of crosses Now their final hosting keep. And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia, And right many a lord of Breagh ; Deep the sod above Clan Creide and Clan Conaill, Kind in hall and fierce in fray. Many and many a son of Conn, the Hundred-Fighter, In the red earth lies at rest ; Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers, Many a swan-white breast. 94 R. ROWLEY THINKIN' LONG IT'S time the lamp was lit, A sit my lone, Watchin' the firelight play On the cracked hearth-stone. Oul' dreams go through my head, Like words o' a song. A'm sittin' here my lone, An* A'm thinkin' long. A poor ouP doitered man That yammers an' girns, A was quarely differ'nt oncet Wi' wife an' bairns. The house was full o' weans All straight an' strong, It's desp'rit empty now, An A'm thinkin' long. It's time the lamp was lit Och, let it stan' ! What need is there o' light For an ouP done man ? The house is empty now, An* the Kirkyard throng ; A'm sittin' here my lone, An A'm thinkin' long. R. ROWLEY 95 WITCHCRAFT Bm Alec o' the Hill Is a strong farmer, an' rich ; OuP Biddy in the loanin' Is poor, an' a witch. Big Alec is failin' He dwinnles an' wastes ; The blight's in his pitaties, The murrain's on his bastes. Big Alec sits an* wonders, An* thinks, but doesn't know The ill-turn he done Biddy Twenty years ago. The good Lord protect us From secret harms ! A wouldn't stan' in big Alec's shoes For all his farms. 9 6 DORA SIGERSON CAN DOOV DEELISH CAN Doov DEELISH, beside the sea I stand and stretch my hands to thee Across the world. The riderless horses race to shore With thundering hoofs and shuddering, hoar, Blown manes uncurled. Can doov deelish, I cry to thee Beyond the world, beneath the sea, Thou being dead. Where hast thou hidden from the beat Of crushing hoofs and tearing feet Thy dear black head ? God bless the woman, whoever she be, From the tossing waves will recover thee And lashing wind. Who will take thee out of the wind and storm, Dry thy wet face on her bosom warm And lips so kind ? I not to know. It is hard to pray, But I shall for this woman from day to day, " Comfort my dead, The sport of the winds and the play of the sea." I loved thee too well for this thing to be, O dear black head I DORA SIGERSON 97 THE COMFORTERS WHEN I crept over the hill, broken with tears, When I crouched down on the grass, dumb in despair, I heard the soft croon of the wind bend to my ears, I felt the light kiss of the wind touching my hair. When I stood lone on the height my sorrow did speak, As I went down the hill, I cried and I cried, The soft little hands of the rain stroking my cheek, The kind little feet of the rain ran by my side. When I went to thy grave, broken with tears, When I crouched down in the grass, dumb in despair, I heard the sweet croon of the wind soft in my ears, I felt the kind lips of the wind touching my hair. When I stood lone by thy cross, sorrow did speak, When I went down the long hill, I cried and I cried, The soft little hands of the rain stroked my pale cheek, The kind little feet of the rain ran by my side. 9 g JAMES STEPHENS BLUE STARS AND GOLD WHILE walking through the trams and cars I chanced to look up at the sky, And saw that it was full of stars. So starry-sown that you could not, With any care, have stuck a pin Through any single vacant spot. And some were shining furiously, And some were big and some were small, But all were beautiful to see. Blue stars and gold, a sky of grey, The air between a velvet pall ; I could not take my eyes away. And there I sang this little psalm Most awkwardly, because I was Standing between a car and tram. JAMES STEPHENS 99 IN THE POPPY FIELD MAD PATSY said, he said to me, That every morning he could see An angel walking on the sky ; Across the sunny skies of morn He threw great handfuls far and nigh Of poppy seed among the corn ; And then, he said, the angels run To see the poppies in the sun. A poppy is a devil weed, I said to him he disagreed : He said the devil had no hand In spreading flowers tall and fair Through corn and rye and meadow land, By garth and barrow everywhere : The devil has not any flower, But only money in his power. And then he stretched out in the sun And rolled upon his back for fun : He kicked his legs and roared for joy Because the sun was shining down, He said he was a little boy And would not work for any clown : He ran and laughed behind a bee, And danced for very ecstasy. ioo JAMES STEPHENS O'CONNELL BRIDGE IN Dublin town the people see Gorgeous clouds sail gorgeously, They are finer, I declare, Than the clouds of anywhere. A swirl of blue and red and green, A stream of blinding gold, a sheen From silver hill and pearly ridge Comes each evening on the bridge. So when you walk in a field, look down, Lest you tramp on a daisy's crown, But in a city look always high And watch the beautiful clouds go by. JAMES STEPHENS 101 STEPHEN'S GREEN THE wind stood up and gave a shout ; He whistled on his fingers, and Kicked the withered leaves about And thumped the branches with his hand, And said he'd kill, and kill, and kill, And so he will, and so he will. 102 JAMES STEPHENS THE RED-HAIRED MAN'S WIFE I HAVE taken that vow And you were my friend But yesterday now All that's at an end, And you are my husband, and claim me, and I must depend. Yerterday I was free, Now you, as I stand, Walk over to me And take hold of my hand. You look at my lips, your eyes are too bold, your smile is too bland. My old name is lost, My distinction of race : Now the line has been crossed, Must I step to your pace ? Must I walk as you list, and obey, and smile up in your face ? All the white and the red Of my cheeks you have won ; All the hair of my head, And my feet, tho' they run, Are yours, and you own me and end me just as I begun. JAMES STEPHENS 103 Must I bow when you speak, Be silent and hear, Inclining my cheek And incredulous ear To your voice, and command, and behest, hold your lightest wish dear ? I am woman, but still Am alive, and can feel Every intimate thrill That is woe or is weal. I, aloof, and divided, apart, standing far, can I kneel ? if kneeling were right, 1 should kneel nor be sad, And abase in your sight All the pride that I had, I should come to you, hold to you, cling to you, call to you, glad. If not, I shall know, I shall surely find out, And your world will throw In disaster and rout ; I am woman and glory and beauty, I mystery, terror, and doubt. I am separate still, I am I and not you : And my mind and my will, As in secret they grew, Still are secret, unreached and untouched and not subject to you. io 4 JAMES STEPHENS THE SNARE To A. E. I HEAR a sudden cry of pain ! There is a rabbit in a snare : Now I hear the cry again, But I cannot tell from where. But I cannot tell from where He is calling out for aid ; Crying on the frightened air, Making everything afraid. Making everything afraid, Wrinkling up his little face, As he cries again for aid ; And I cannot find the place ! And I cannot find the place Where his paw is in the snare : Little one ! Oh, little one ! I am searching everywhere. HERBERT TRENCH 105 A SONG TO AROLILIA DWELLER BY THE FOUNTAIN WHEN you were born, the Earth obeyed ; (Call her, Echo /) Fragrancies from the distance blew, Beanfields and violets were made, And jasmine by the cypress grew Jasmine by the cloudy yew (Call her, Echo ! Call Arolilia by her name!] When you were born, despairs must die, (Call her, Echo /) Sweet tongues were loosened from a spell Snow mountains glistened from on high And torrents to the valleys fell A song into Man's bosom fell (Call her, Echo ! Call Arolilia by her name!) When you were born, hid lightning's shape (Call her, Echo /) Took up the poor man's altar coal, His green vine throbbed into the grape, And in the dastard sprang a soul Even in the dastard sprang a soul (Call her, Echo ! Call Arolilia by her name /) io6 HERBERT TRENCH When you were born, all golden shot (Call her, Echo /) Fountains of daybreak from the sea, And still, if near I find you not If steps I hear, but you come not Darkness lies on the world for me ! (Call her, Echo ! Call Arolilia by her name!) HERBERT TRENCH 107 EPITAPH ON AN INFANT HOUSE upon the Earth, be sad, Lacking me them mightst have had I Many aeons did I wait For admission to the Gate Of the Living. But to see Much was not vouchsafed to me, Dazzled, in my little span. I, that hoped to be a man, Like a snowflake incarnated Seem for three days light created. I saw two Eyes, and break of Day Gold on spires of Nineveh. But, ere I one comrade made, Or with a fellow Beastling played Even while voices I forget Called from cloud and minaret Men to wake I stood once more With the Dreams, outside the door. io8 HERBERT TRENCH SONG OF THE VINE IN ENGLAND MAN. O VINE along my garden wall Could I thine English slumber break, And thee from wintry exile disenthral, Where would thy spirit wake ? VINE. I would wake at the hour of dawning in May in Italy, When rose mists rise from the Magra's valley plains In the fields of maize and olives around Pontremoli When peaks grow golden and clear and the starlight wanes : I would wake to the dance of the sacred mountains, boundlessly Kindling their marble snows in the rite of fire, To them my newborn tendrils softly and soundlessly Would uncurl and aspire. I would hang no more on thy wall a rusted slumberer, Listless and fruitless, strewing the pathways cold, I would seem no more in thine eyes an idle cumberer Profitless alien, bitter and sere and old. HERBERT TRENCH 109 In some warm terraced dell where the Roman rioted And still in tiers his stony theatre heaves, Would I festoon with leaf-light his glory quieted And flake his thrones with leaves. Doves from the mountain belfries would seek and cling to me To drink from the altar, winnowing the fragrant airs ; Women from olived hillsides by turns would sing to me Beating the olives, or stooping afield in pairs ; On gala evenings the gay little carts of labourers Swinging from axles their horns against evil eye And crowded with children, revellers, pipers and taborers Chanting would pass me by. . . . There go the pale blue shadows so light and showery Over sharp Apuan peaks rathe mists unwreathe Almond trees wake, and the paven yards grow flowery Crocuses cry from the earth at the joy to breathe ; There through the deep-eaved gateways of haughty- turreted Arno house-laden bridges of strutted stalls Mighty white oxen drag in the jars rich-spirited Grazing the narrow walls ! no HERBERT TRENCH Wine-jars I too have filled, and the heart was thrilled with me ! Brown-limbed on shady turf the families lay, Shouting they bowled the bowls, and old men filled with me Roused the September twilight with songs that day. Lanterns of sun and moon the young children flaunted me, Plaiters of straw from doorway to window cried Borne through the city gates the great oxen vaunted me, Swaying from side to side. Wine-jars out of my leafage that once so vitally Throbbed into purple, of me thou shalt never take : Thy heart would remember the towns on the branch of Italy, And teaching to throb I should teach it, perchance, to break. It would beat for those little cities, rock-hewn and mellowing Festooned from summit to summit, where still sublime Murmur her temples, lovelier in their yellowing Than in the morn of time. I from the scorn of frost and the wind's iniquity Barren, aloft in that golden air would thrive : My passionate rootlets draw from that hearth's antiquity Whirls of profounder fire in us to survive HERBERT TRENCH in Serried realms of our fathers would swell and foam with us Juice of the Latin sunrise ; your own sea-flung Rude and far-wandered race might again find home with us, Leaguing with old Rome, young. H2 HERBERT TRENCH WHO ART THOU, STARRY GHOST WHO art thou, starry ghost, That ridest on the air At head of all the host, And art so burning-eyed For all thy strengthlessness ? World, I am no less Than She whom thou hast awaited ; She who remade a Poland out of nothingness, And hath created Ireland, out of a breath of pride In the reed-bed of despair. KATHARINE TYNAN 1.13 FAREWELL NOT soon shall I forget a sheet Of golden water, cold and sweet, The young moon with her head in veils Of silver, and the nightingales. A wain of hay came up the lane fields I shall not walk again, And trees I shall not see, so still Against a sky of daffodil ! Fields where my happy heart had rest, And where my heart was heaviest, 1 shall remember them at peace Drenched in moon-silver like a fleece. The golden water sweet and cold, The moon of silver and of gold, The dew upon the gray grass-spears, I shall remember them with tears. ii 4 KATHARINE TYNAN THE OLD LOVE OUT of my door I step into The country, all her scent and dew, Nor travel there by a hard road, Dusty and far from my abode. The country washes to my door Green miles on miles in soft uproar, The thunder of the woods, and then The backwash of green surf again. Beyond the feverfew and stocks, The guelder-rose and hollyhocks ; Outside my trellised porch a tree Of lilac frames a sky for me. A stretch of primrose and pale green To hold the tender Hesper in ; Hesper that by the moon makes pale Her silver keel and silver sail. The country silence wraps me quite, Silence and song and pure delight ; The country beckons all the day Smiling, and but a step away. KATHARINE TYNAN 115 This is that country seen across How many a league of love and loss, Prayed for and longed for, and as far As fountains in the desert are. This is that country at my door, Whose fragrant airs run on before, And call me when the first birds stir In the green wood to walk with her. u6 KATHARINE TYNAN THE PRAYER SHE drew the grey shawl round her head ; " Sure it is bitter cold," she said ; " An' is there news of him, asthore ? " God help the mothers of the world ! "I do be prayin' to meseP The Lord may keep him safe and well An' bring him back to his mother's door." God help the mothers of the world ! " The lambs are perished wid the storm. God keep his darlin' head from harm ! It's well for her has ne'er a one ! " God help the mothers of the world ! And as I went my way I heard Her call like a lamenting bird : " I used to fret that had no son." God help the mothers of the world I W. B. YEATS 117 DOWN BY THE SALLEY GARDENS DOWN by the salley gardens my love and I did meet ; She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet. She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree ; But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree. In a field by the river my love and I did stand, And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow- white hand. She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs ; But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears. u8 W. B. YEATS RUNNING TO PARADISE As I came over Windy Gap They threw a halfpenny into my cap, For I am running to Paradise ; And all that I need do is to wish And somebody puts his hand in the dish To throw me a bit of salted fish : And there the king is but as the beggar. My brother Mourteen is worn out With skelping his big brawling lout, And I am running to Paradise ; A poor life do what he can, And though he keep a dog and a gun, A serving maid and a serving man : And there the king is but as the beggar. Poor men have grown to be rich men, And rich men grown to be poor again, And I am running to Paradise ; And many a darling wit's grown dull That tossed a bare heel when at school, Now it has filled an old sock full : And there the king is but as the beggar. W. B. YEATS 119 The wind is old and still at play While I must hurry upon my way, For I am running to Paradise ; Yet never have I lit on a friend To take my fancy like the wind That nobody can buy or bind : And there the king is but as the beggar. 120 W. B. YEATS THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made : Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings ; There midnight's all aglimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings. I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore ; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core. W. B. YEATS 121 THE SORROW OF LOVE THE quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves, The full round moon and the star-laden sky, And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves, Had hid away earth's old and weary cry. And then you came with those red mournful lips, And with you came the whole of the world's tears And all the trouble of her labouring ships, And all the trouble of her myriad years. And now the sparrows warring in the eaves, The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky, And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves, Are shaken with earth's old and weary cry. 122 W. B. YEATS THE WILD SWANS AT COOLE THE trees are in their autumn beauty, The woodland paths are dry, Under the October twilight the water Mirrors a still sky ; Upon the brimming water among the stones Are nine and fifty swans. The nineteenth Autumn has come upon me Since I first made my count ; I saw, before I had well finished, All suddenly mount And scatter wheeling in great broken rings Upon their clamorous wings. I have looked upon those brilliant creatures, And now my heart is sore. All's changed since I, hearing at twilight, The first time on this shore, The bell-beat of their wings above my head, Trod with a lighter tread. W. B. YEATS 123 Unwearied still, lover by lover, They paddle in the cold, Companionable streams or climb the air ; Their hearts have not grown old ; Passion or conquest, wander where they will, Attend upon them still. But now they drift on the still water Mysterious, beautiful ; Among what rushes will they build, By what lake's edge or pool Delight men's eyes when I awake some day To find they have flown away ? 124 W. B. YEATS TO THE ROSE UPON THE ROOD OF TIME RED Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days ! Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways : Cuchulain battling with the bitter tide ; The Druid, gray, wood-nurtured, quiet-eyed, Who cast round Fergus dreams, and ruin untold ; And thine own sadness, whereof stars, grown old In dancing silver sandalled on the sea, Sing in their high and lonely melody. Come near, that no more blinded by man's fate, I find under the boughs of love and hate, In all poor foolish things that live a day, Eternal beauty wandering on her way. Come near, come near, come near Ah, leave me still A little space for the rose-breath to fill ! Lest I no more hear common things that crave ; The weak worm hiding down in its small cave, The field mouse running by me in the grass, And heavy mortal hopes that toil and pass ; But seek alone to hear the strange things said By God to the bright hearts of those long dead, W. B. YEATS 125 And learn to chaunt a tongue men do not know. Come near ; I would, before my time to go, Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways : Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days. 126 W. B. YEATS WHEN YOU ARE OLD WHEN /ou are old and gray and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep. How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true ; But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face. And bending down beside the glowing bars Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. ACKNOWLEDGMENT FOR their kindly permission to use Copyright Poems the Editor is deeply indebted to : THE AUTHORS : A. E., J. Campbell, P. R. Chalmers, N. Chesson, A. Clarke, P. Colum, J. H. Cousins, H. L. Doak, D. Figgis, I. Hume (I. H. Fisher), D. Hyde, E. Gore-Booth, P. Gregory, S. Leslie, W. M. Letts, E. E. Lysaght, J. F. MacEntee, P. MacGill, S. Mitchell, " M. O'Neill," S. O'Sullivan, R. Rowley, J. Stephens, H. Trench, K. Tynan and W. B. Yeats. THE LITERARY EXECUTORS OF : L. Johnson, F. Ledwidge, T. MacDonagh, P. H. Pearse, J. M. Plunkett, T. W. Rolleston and D. Sigerson (Mrs. Clement Shorter). AND THE FOLLOWING PUBLISHERS in respect of the poems selected : Messrs. Blackwood & Sons. " M. O'Neill " : The Songs of the Glens of Antrim. Messrs. Constable Co., Ltd. D. Sigerson : The Sad Tears. H. Trench : Poems with Fables in Prose. Messrs. M. H. Gill & Son, Ltd. D. Hyde : Love Songs of Connacht. Messrs. Henry Holt & Co. of New York. P. Colum : Wild Earth and Other Poems. Mr. Herbert Jenkins. F. Ledwidge : Complete Poems. P. MacGill : Songs of Donegal. Messrs. Macmillan & Co., Ltd. A. E. : Poems. J. Stephens : The Adventures of Seumas Beg. Songs from the Clay. 128 ACKNOWLEDGMENT W. B. Yeats: Mr. Elkin Matthews. N. Chesson: L. Johnson : Messrs. Maunsel and Roberts, P. Chalmers: A. Clarke : P. Colum : J. H. Cousins : D. Figgis: E. Gore-Booth: T. Hume (I.H. Fisher) : E. E. Lysaght : S. Mitchell: S. O'Sullivan: P. H. Pearse : T. W. Rolleston : R. Rowley: J. Stephens: Mr. John Murray. W. M. letts : Responsibilities. The Wild Swans at Code. Aquamarines. Poetical Works. Ltd. Green Days and Blue Days. The Vengeance of Fiona. Wild Earth and Other Poems. The Bell-Branch. The Mount of Transfiguration. Broken Glory. The Pursuit and Other Poems. Irish Eclogues. The Living Chalice. The Rosses and Other Poems. Collected Works. Sea Spray. City Songs and Others. Insurrections. Songs from Leinster. Messrs. Sidgwick and Jackson, Ltd. K. Tynan : Late The Talbot Press, Ltd. H. L. Doak : T. MacDonagh : J. F. MacEntee : J. M. Plunkett : The Three-Rock Road. Poems. Poems. Poems. Mr. T. Fisher Unwin, Ltd. W. B. Yeats : Poems. Printed in Great Britain by LNWI.N BROTHERS, LIMITED, THE SRESHAM FRB8S, WOKINC AND LONMM 031 167