THE CULT OF THE CELTIC
WHEN the eager squadrons of day are faint and disbanded,
And under the wind-swept stars the reaper gleans
The petulant passion flowers—although, to be candid,
I haven't the faintest notion what that means—
Surely the Snow-White Bird makes melody sweeter
High in the air than skimming the clogging dust.
(Yes, there's certainly something queer about this metre,
But, as it's Celtic, you and I must take it on trust.)
And oh, the smile of the Slave as he shakes his fetters!
And oh, the Purple Pig as it roams afar!
And oh, the—something or other in capital letters—
As it yields to the magic spell of a wind-swept star!
And look at the tricksy Elves, how they leap and frolic,
Ducking the Bad Banshee in the moonlit pool,
Celtic, yet fully content to be "symbolic,"
Never a thought in their heads about Home Rule!
But the wind-swept star—you notice it has to figure,
Taking an average merely, in each alternate verse
Of every Celtic poem—smiles with a palpable snigger,
While the Yellow Wolf-Hound bays his blighting curse,
And the voices of dead desires in sufferers waken,
And the voice of the limitless lake is harsh and rough,
And the voice of the reader, too, unless I'm mistaken,
Is heard to remark that he's had about enough.
But since the critics have stated with some decision
That stanzas very like these are simply grand,
Showing "a sense of beauty and intimate vision,"
Proving a "Celtic Renaissance" close at hand;
Then, although I admit it's a terrible tax on
Powers like mine, yet I sincerely felt
My task, as an unintelligent Saxon,
Was, at all hazards, to try to copy the Celt!
Anthony C. Deane.