THE ARROW.

I thought of your beauty and this arrow Made out of a wild thought is in my marrow. There’s no man may look upon her, no man, As when newly grown to be a woman, Blossom pale, she pulled down the pale blossom At the moth hour and hid it in her bosom. This beauty’s kinder yet for a reason I could weep that the old is out of season.

THE FOLLY OF BEING COMFORTED.

One that is ever kind said yesterday: ‘Your well beloved’s hair has threads of grey And little shadows come about her eyes; Time can but make it easier to be wise Though now it’s hard, till trouble is at an end; And so be patient, be wise and patient, friend.’ But heart, there is no comfort, not a grain. Time can but make her beauty over again Because of that great nobleness of hers; The fire that stirs about her, when she stirs Burns but more clearly; O she had not these ways When all the wild summer was in her gaze. O heart, O heart, if she’d but turn her head, You’d know the folly of being comforted.

THE WITHERING OF THE BOUGHS.

I cried when the moon was murmuring to the birds, ‘Let peewit call and curlew cry where they will, I long for your merry and tender and pitiful words, For the roads are unending and there is no place to my mind.’ The honey-pale moon lay low on the sleepy hill And I fell asleep upon lonely Echtge of streams; No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind, The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams. I know of the leafy paths that the witches take, Who come with their crowns of pearl and their spindles of wool, And their secret smile, out of the depths of the lake; And of apple islands where the Danaan kind Wind and unwind their dances when the light grows cool On the island lawns, their feet where the pale foam gleams; No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind, The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams. I know of the sleepy country, where swans fly round Coupled with golden chains and sing as they fly, A king and a queen are wandering there, and the sound Has made them so happy and hopeless, so deaf and so blind With wisdom, they wander till all the years have gone by; I know, and the curlew and peewit on Echtge of streams; No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind, The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.

ADAM’S CURSE.

We sat together at one summer’s end That beautiful mild woman your close friend And you and I, and talked of poetry. I said ‘a line will take us hours maybe, Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought Our stitching and unstitching has been naught. Better go down upon your marrow bones And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones Like an old pauper in all kinds of weather; For to articulate sweet sounds together Is to work harder than all these and yet Be thought an idler by the noisy set Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen The martyrs call the world.’ That woman then Murmured with her young voice, for whose mild sake There’s many a one shall find out all heartache In finding that it’s young and mild and low. ‘There is one thing that all we women know Although we never heard of it at school, That we must labour to be beautiful.’ I said, ‘It’s certain there is no fine thing Since Adam’s fall but needs much labouring. There have been lovers who thought love should be So much compounded of high courtesy That they would sigh and quote with learned looks Precedents out of beautiful old books; Yet now it seems an idle trade enough.’ We sat grown quiet at the name of love. We saw the last embers of daylight die And in the trembling blue-green of the sky A moon, worn as if it had been a shell Washed by time’s waters as they rose and fell About the stars and broke in days and years. I had a thought for no one’s but your ears; That you were beautiful and that I strove To love you in the old high way of love; That it had all seemed happy, and yet we’d grown As weary hearted as that hollow moon.

THE SONG OF RED HANRAHAN.

The old brown thorn trees break in two high over Cummen Strand Under a bitter black wind that blows from the left hand, Our courage breaks like an old tree in a black wind and dies; But we have hidden in our hearts the flame out of the eyes Of Cathleen the daughter of Houlihan. The wind has bundled up the clouds high over Knocknarea And thrown the thunder on the stones for all that Maeve can say. Angers that are like noisy clouds have set our hearts abeat; But we have all bent low and low and kissed the quiet feet Of Cathleen the daughter of Houlihan. The yellow pool has overflowed high up on Clooth-na-Bare, For the wet winds are blowing out of the clinging air; Like heavy flooded waters our bodies and our blood; But purer than a tall candle before the Holy Rood Is Cathleen the daughter of Houlihan.