ON BAILE’S STRAND.—SONG OF THE WOMEN.
SONG OF THE WOMEN.
Florence Farr.
May this fire have driven out
The shape-changers that can put
Ruin on a great king’s house,
Until all be ruinous.
Names whereby a man has known
The threshold and the hearthstone,
Gather on the wind and drive
Women none can kiss and thrive,
For they are but whirling wind,
Out of memory and mind.
They would make a prince decay
With light images of clay
Planted in the running wave;
Or for many shapes they have,
They would change them into hounds
Until he had died of his wounds
Though the change were but a whim;
Or they’d hurl a spell at him,
That he follow with desire
Bodies that can never tire
Or grow kind, for they anoint
All their bodies joint by joint
With a miracle-working juice
That is made out of the grease
Of the ungoverned unicorn;
But the man is thrice forlorn
Emptied, ruined, wracked, and lost,
That they follow, for at most
They will give him kiss for kiss
While they murmur “After this
Hatred may be sweet to the taste;”
Those wild hands that have embraced
All his body can but shove
At the burning wheel of love
Till the side of hate comes up.
Therefore in this ancient cup
May the sword-blades drink their fill
Of the home-brew there, until
They will have for master none
But the threshold and hearthstone.
THE FOOL’S SONG.—II.
Florence Farr.
When you were an acorn on the tree top,
Then was I an eagle-cock;
Now that you are a withered old block,
Still am I an eagle-cock.
DEIRDRE. MUSICIANS’ SONG.—I.
Florence Farr.
First Musician.
“Why is it,” Queen Edain said,
“If I do but climb the stair
To the tower overhead
When the winds are calling there,
Or the gannets calling out,
In waste places of the sky,
There is so much to think about,
That I cry, that I cry?”
Second Musician.
But her goodman answered her:
“Love would be a thing of naught
Had not all his limbs a stir
Born out of immoderate thought.
Were he any thing by half,
Were his measure running dry,
Lovers, if they may not laugh,
Have to cry, have to cry.”
The Three Musicians together.
But is Edain worth a song
Now the hunt begins anew?
Praise the beautiful and strong;
Praise the redness of the yew;
Praise the blossoming apple-stem.
But our silence had been wise.
What is all our praise to them
That have one another’s eyes?
DEIRDRE. MUSICIANS’ SONG.—II.
[DEIRDRE.
MUSICIANS’ SONG.—II.]
Florence Farr.
Love is an immoderate thing
And can never be content
Till it dip an ageing wing,
Where some laughing element
Leaps and Time’s old lanthorn dims.
What’s the merit in love-play,
In the tumult of the limbs
That dies out before ’tis day,
Heart on heart or mouth on mouth
All that mingling of our breath,
When love-longing is but drouth
For the things that follow death?
DEIRDRE. MUSICIANS’ SONG.—III. Farr.
[DEIRDRE.
MUSICIANS’ SONG.—III.]
Florence Farr.
First Musician.
They are gone, they are gone
The proud may lie by the proud.
Second Musician.
Though we were bidden to sing, cry nothing Loud.
First Musician.
They are gone, they are gone.
Second Musician.
Whispering were enough.
First Musician.
Into the secret wilderness of their love.
Second Musician.
A high grey cairn.
What more to be said?
First Musician.
Eagles have gone into their cloudy bed.
DEIRDRE. MUSICIANS’ SONG.—III. ALLGOOD.
[DEIRDRE. MUSICIANS’ SONG.—III.]
Sarah Allgood.
First Musician
They are gone:
They are gone; the proud may lie by the proud.
Second Musician
Though we are bidden to sing, cry nothing loud.
First Musician
They are gone, they are gone.
Second Musician
Whispering were enough.
First Musician.
Into the secret wilderness of their love.
Second Musician
A high grey cairn.
What more is to be said?
First Musician
Eagles have gone into their cloudy bed.