Part 2

Now all the truth is out, Be secret and take defeat From any brazen throat, For how can you compete, Being honour bred, with one Who, were it proved he lies, Were neither shamed in his own Nor in his neighbours' eyes? Bred to a harder thing Than Triumph, turn away And like a laughing string Whereon mad fingers play Amid a place of stone, Be secret and exult, Because of all things known That is most difficult.

PAUDEEN

Indignant at the fumbling wits, the obscure spite Of our old Paudeen in his shop, I stumbled blind Among the stones and thorn trees, under morning light; Until a curlew cried and in the luminous wind A curlew answered; and suddenly thereupon I thought That on the lonely height where all are in God's eye, There cannot be, confusion of our sound forgot, A single soul that lacks a sweet crystaline cry.

TO A SHADE

If you have revisited the town, thin Shade, Whether to look upon your monument (I wonder if the builder has been paid) Or happier thoughted when the day is spent To drink of that salt breath out of the sea When grey gulls flit about instead of men, And the gaunt houses put on majesty: Let these content you and be gone again; For they are at their old tricks yet.

A man Of your own passionate serving kind who had brought In his full hands what, had they only known, Had given their children's children loftier thought, Sweeter emotion, working in their veins Like gentle blood, has been driven from the place, And insult heaped upon him for his pains And for his open-handedness, disgrace; An old foul mouth that slandered you had set The pack upon him.

Go, unquiet wanderer, And gather the Glasnevin coverlet About your head till the dust stops your ear, The time for you to taste of that salt breath And listen at the corners has not come; You had enough of sorrow before death-- Away, away! You are safer in the tomb.

_September 29th, 1914._

WHEN HELEN LIVED

We have cried in our despair That men desert, For some trivial affair Or noisy, insolent sport, Beauty that we have won From bitterest hours; Yet we, had we walked within Those topless towers Where Helen walked with her boy, Had given but as the rest Of the men and women of Troy, A word and a jest.

THE ATTACK ON 'THE PLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD,' 1907

Once, when midnight smote the air, Eunuchs ran through Hell and met From thoroughfare to thoroughfare, While that great Juan galloped by; And like these to rail and sweat Staring upon his sinewy thigh.

THE THREE BEGGARS

_'Though to my feathers in the wet,_ _I have stood here from break of day,_ _I have not found a thing to eat_ _For only rubbish comes my way._ _Am I to live on lebeen-lone?'_ _Muttered the old crane of Gort._ _'For all my pains on lebeen-lone.'_

King Guari walked amid his court The palace-yard and river-side And there to three old beggars said: 'You that have wandered far and wide Can ravel out what's in my head. Do men who least desire get most, Or get the most who most desire?' A beggar said: 'They get the most Whom man or devil cannot tire, And what could make their muscles taut Unless desire had made them so.' But Guari laughed with secret thought, 'If that be true as it seems true, One of you three is a rich man, For he shall have a thousand pounds Who is first asleep, if but he can Sleep before the third noon sounds.' And thereon merry as a bird, With his old thoughts King Guari went From river-side and palace-yard And left them to their argument. 'And if I win,' one beggar said, 'Though I am old I shall persuade A pretty girl to share my bed'; The second: 'I shall learn a trade'; The third: 'I'll hurry to the course Among the other gentlemen, And lay it all upon a horse'; The second: 'I have thought again: A farmer has more dignity.' One to another sighed and cried: The exorbitant dreams of beggary, That idleness had borne to pride, Sang through their teeth from noon to noon; And when the second twilight brought The frenzy of the beggars' moon They closed their blood-shot eyes for naught. One beggar cried: 'You're shamming sleep.' And thereupon their anger grew Till they were whirling in a heap.

They'd mauled and bitten the night through Or sat upon their heels to rail, And when old Guari came and stood Before the three to end this tale, They were commingling lice and blood. 'Time's up,' he cried, and all the three With blood-shot eyes upon him stared. 'Time's up,' he cried, and all the three Fell down upon the dust and snored.

_'Maybe I shall be lucky yet,_ _Now they are silent,' said the crane._ _'Though to my feathers in the wet_ _I've stood as I were made of stone_ _And seen the rubbish run about,_ _It's certain there are trout somewhere_ _And maybe I shall take a trout_ _If but I do not seem to care.'_

THE THREE HERMITS

Three old hermits took the air By a cold and desolate sea, First was muttering a prayer, Second rummaged for a flea; On a windy stone, the third, Giddy with his hundredth year, Sang unnoticed like a bird. 'Though the Door of Death is near And what waits behind the door, Three times in a single day I, though upright on the shore, Fall asleep when I should pray.' So the first but now the second, 'We're but given what we have earned When all thoughts and deeds are reckoned, So it's plain to be discerned That the shades of holy men, Who have failed being weak of will, Pass the Door of Birth again, And are plagued by crowds, until They've the passion to escape.' Moaned the other, 'They are thrown Into some most fearful shape.' But the second mocked his moan: 'They are not changed to anything, Having loved God once, but maybe, To a poet or a king Or a witty lovely lady.' While he'd rummaged rags and hair, Caught and cracked his flea, the third, Giddy with his hundredth year Sang unnoticed like a bird.

BEGGAR TO BEGGAR CRIED

'Time to put off the world and go somewhere And find my health again in the sea air,' Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck, 'And make my soul before my pate is bare.'

'And get a comfortable wife and house To rid me of the devil in my shoes,' Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck, 'And the worse devil that is between my thighs.'

'And though I'd marry with a comely lass, She need not be too comely--let it pass,' Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck, 'But there's a devil in a looking-glass.'

'Nor should she be too rich, because the rich Are driven by wealth as beggars by the itch,' Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck, 'And cannot have a humorous happy speech.'

'And there I'll grow respected at my ease, And hear amid the garden's nightly peace,' Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck, 'The wind-blown clamor of the barnacle-geese.'

THE WELL AND THE TREE

'The Man that I praise,' Cries out the empty well, 'Lives all his days Where a hand on the bell Can call the milch-cows To the comfortable door of his house. Who but an idiot would praise Dry stones in a well?'

'The Man that I praise,' Cries out the leafless tree, 'Has married and stays By an old hearth, and he On naught has set store But children and dogs on the floor. Who but an idiot would praise A withered tree?'

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.

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.

THE HOUR BEFORE DAWN

A one-legged, one-armed, one-eyed man, A bundle of rags upon a crutch, Stumbled on windy Cruachan Cursing the wind. It was as much As the one sturdy leg could do To keep him upright while he cursed. He had counted, where long years ago Queen Maeve's nine Maines had been nursed, A pair of lapwings, one old sheep And not a house to the plain's edge, When close to his right hand a heap Of grey stones and a rocky ledge Reminded him that he could make, If he but shifted a few stones, A shelter till the daylight broke. But while he fumbled with the stones They toppled over; 'Were it not I have a lucky wooden shin I had been hurt'; and toppling brought Before his eyes, where stones had been, A dark deep hole in the rock's face. He gave a gasp and thought to run, Being certain it was no right place But the Hell Mouth at Cruachan That's stuffed with all that's old and bad, And yet stood still, because inside He had seen a red-haired jolly lad In some outlandish coat beside A ladle and a tub of beer, Plainly no phantom by his look. So with a laugh at his own fear He crawled into that pleasant nook. Young Red-head stretched himself to yawn And murmured, 'May God curse the night That's grown uneasy near the dawn So that it seems even I sleep light; And who are you that wakens me? Has one of Maeve's nine brawling sons Grown tired of his own company? But let him keep his grave for once I have to find the sleep I have lost.' And then at last being wide awake, 'I took you for a brawling ghost, Say what you please, but from day-break I'll sleep another century.' The beggar deaf to all but hope Went down upon a hand and knee And took the wooden ladle up And would have dipped it in the beer But the other pushed his hand aside, 'Before you have dipped it in the beer That sacred Goban brewed,' he cried, 'I'd have assurance that you are able To value beer--I will have no fool Dipping his nose into my ladle Because he has stumbled on this hole In the bad hour before the dawn. If you but drink that beer and say I will sleep until the winter's gone, Or maybe, to Midsummer Day You will sleep that length; and at the first I waited so for that or this-- Because the weather was a-cursed Or I had no woman there to kiss, And slept for half a year or so; But year by year I found that less Gave me such pleasure I'd forgo Even a half hour's nothingness, And when at one year's end I found I had not waked a single minute, I chose this burrow under ground. I will sleep away all Time within it: My sleep were now nine centuries But for those mornings when I find The lapwing at their foolish cries And the sheep bleating at the wind As when I also played the fool.' The beggar in a rage began Upon his hunkers in the hole, 'It's plain that you are no right man To mock at everything I love As if it were not worth the doing. I'd have a merry life enough If a good Easter wind were blowing, And though the winter wind is bad I should not be too down in the mouth For anything you did or said If but this wind were in the south.' But the other cried, 'You long for spring Or that the wind would shift a point And do not know that you would bring, If time were suppler in the joint, Neither the spring nor the south wind But the hour when you shall pass away And leave no smoking wick behind, For all life longs for the Last Day And there's no man but cocks his ear To know when Michael's trumpet cries That flesh and bone may disappear, And souls as if they were but sighs, And there be nothing but God left; But I alone being blessed keep Like some old rabbit to my cleft And wait Him in a drunken sleep.'

He dipped his ladle in the tub And drank and yawned and stretched him out. The other shouted, 'You would rob My life of every pleasant thought And every comfortable thing And so take that and that.' Thereon He gave him a great pummelling, But might have pummelled at a stone For all the sleeper knew or cared; And after heaped the stones again And cursed and prayed, and prayed and cursed: 'Oh God if he got loose!' And then In fury and in panic fled From the Hell Mouth at Cruachan And gave God thanks that overhead The clouds were brightening with the dawn.

THE PLAYER QUEEN

(_Song from an Unfinished Play_)

My mother dandled me and sang, 'How young it is, how young!' And made a golden cradle That on a willow swung.

'He went away,' my mother sang, 'When I was brought to bed,' And all the while her needle pulled The gold and silver thread.

She pulled the thread and bit the thread And made a golden gown, And wept because she had dreamt that I Was born to wear a crown.

'When she was got,' my mother sang, 'I heard a sea-mew cry, And saw a flake of the yellow foam That dropped upon my thigh.'

How therefore could she help but braid The gold into my hair, And dream that I should carry The golden top of care?

THE REALISTS

Hope that you may understand! What can books of men that wive In a dragon-guarded land, Paintings of the dolphin-drawn Sea-nymphs in their pearly waggons Do, but awake a hope to live That had gone With the dragons?

I

THE WITCH

Toil, and grow rich, What's that but to lie With a foul witch And after, drained dry, To be brought To the chamber where Lies one long sought With despair.

II

THE PEACOCK

What's riches to him That has made a great peacock With the pride of his eye? The wind-beaten, stone-grey, And desolate Three-rock Would nourish his whim. Live he or die Amid wet rocks and heather, His ghost will be gay Adding feather to feather For the pride of his eye.

THE MOUNTAIN TOMB

Pour wine and dance if Manhood still have pride, Bring roses if the rose be yet in bloom; The cataract smokes upon the mountain side, Our Father Rosicross is in his tomb.

Pull down the blinds, bring fiddle and clarionet That there be no foot silent in the room Nor mouth from kissing, nor from wine unwet; Our Father Rosicross is in his tomb.

In vain, in vain; the cataract still cries The everlasting taper lights the gloom; All wisdom shut into his onyx eyes Our Father Rosicross sleeps in his tomb.

TO A CHILD DANCING IN THE WIND

I

Dance there upon the shore; What need have you to care For wind or water's roar? And tumble out your hair That the salt drops have wet; Being young you have not known The fool's triumph, nor yet Love lost as soon as won, Nor the best labourer dead And all the sheaves to bind. What need have you to dread The monstrous crying of wind?

II

Has no one said those daring Kind eyes should be more learn'd? Or warned you how despairing The moths are when they are burned, I could have warned you, but you are young, So we speak a different tongue.

O you will take whatever's offered And dream that all the world's a friend, Suffer as your mother suffered, Be as broken in the end. But I am old and you are young, And I speak a barbarous tongue.

A MEMORY OF YOUTH

The moments passed as at a play, I had the wisdom love brings forth; I had my share of mother wit And yet for all that I could say, And though I had her praise for it, A cloud blown from the cut-throat north Suddenly hid love's moon away.

Believing every word I said I praised her body and her mind Till pride had made her eyes grow bright, And pleasure made her cheeks grow red, And vanity her footfall light, Yet we, for all that praise, could find Nothing but darkness overhead.

We sat as silent as a stone, We knew, though she'd not said a word, That even the best of love must die, And had been savagely undone Were it not that love upon the cry Of a most ridiculous little bird Tore from the clouds his marvellous moon.

FALLEN MAJESTY

Although crowds gathered once if she but showed her face, And even old men's eyes grew dim, this hand alone, Like some last courtier at a gypsy camping place, Babbling of fallen majesty, records what's gone.

The lineaments, a heart that laughter has made sweet, These, these remain, but I record what's gone. A crowd Will gather, and not know it walks the very street Whereon a thing once walked that seemed a burning cloud.

FRIENDS

Now must I these three praise-- Three women that have wrought What joy is in my days; One that no passing thought, Nor those unpassing cares, No, not in these fifteen Many times troubled years, Could ever come between Heart and delighted heart; And one because her hand Had strength that could unbind What none can understand, What none can have and thrive, Youth's dreamy load, till she So changed me that I live Labouring in ecstasy. And what of her that took All till my youth was gone With scarce a pitying look? How should I praise that one? When day begins to break I count my good and bad, Being wakeful for her sake, Remembering what she had, What eagle look still shows, While up from my heart's root So great a sweetness flows I shake from head to foot.

THE COLD HEAVEN

Suddenly I saw the cold and rook-delighting Heaven That seemed as though ice burned and was but the more ice, And thereupon imagination and heart were driven So wild that every casual thought of that and this Vanished, and left but memories, that should be out of season With the hot blood of youth, of love crossed long ago; And I took all the blame out of all sense and reason, Until I cried and trembled and rocked to and fro, Riddled with light. Ah! when the ghost begins to quicken, Confusion of the death-bed over, is it sent Out naked on the roads, as the books say, and stricken By the injustice of the skies for punishment?

THAT THE NIGHT COME

She lived in storm and strife, Her soul had such desire For what proud death may bring That it could not endure The common good of life, But lived as 'twere a king That packed his marriage day With banneret and pennon, Trumpet and kettledrum, And the outrageous cannon, To bundle time away That the night come.

AN APPOINTMENT

Being out of heart with government I took a broken root to fling Where the proud, wayward squirrel went, Taking delight that he could spring; And he, with that low whinnying sound That is like laughter, sprang again And so to the other tree at a bound. Nor the tame will, nor timid brain, Bred that fierce tooth and cleanly limb And threw him up to laugh on the bough; No government appointed him.

I

THE MAGI

Now as at all times I can see in the mind's eye, In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones Appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones, And all their helms of silver hovering side by side, And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more, Being by Calvary's turbulence unsatisfied, The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.

II

THE DOLLS

A doll in the doll-maker's house Looks at the cradle and balls: 'That is an insult to us.' But the oldest of all the dolls Who had seen, being kept for show, Generations of his sort, Out-screams the whole shelf: 'Although There's not a man can report Evil of this place, The man and the woman bring Hither to our disgrace, A noisy and filthy thing.' Hearing him groan and stretch The doll-maker's wife is aware Her husband has heard the wretch, And crouched by the arm of his chair, She murmurs into his ear, Head upon shoulder leant: 'My dear, my dear, oh dear, It was an accident.'

A COAT

I made my song a coat Covered with embroideries Out of old mythologies From heel to throat; But the fools caught it, Wore it in the world's eye As though they'd wrought it. Song, let them take it For there's more enterprise In walking naked.

* * * * *

_While I, from that reed-throated whisperer_ _Who comes at need, although not now as once_ _A clear articulation in the air_ _But inwardly, surmise companions_ _Beyond the fling of the dull ass's hoof,_ _--Ben Jonson's phrase--and find when June is come_ _At Kyle-na-no under that ancient roof_ _A sterner conscience and a friendlier home,_ _I can forgive even that wrong of wrongs,_ _Those undreamt accidents that have made me_ _--Seeing that Fame has perished this long while_ _Being but a part of ancient ceremony--_ _Notorious, till all my priceless things_ _Are but a post the passing dogs defile._

FROM THE GREEN HELMET AND OTHER POEMS

HIS DREAM

I swayed upon the gaudy stern The butt end of a steering oar, And everywhere that I could turn Men ran upon the shore.

And though I would have hushed the crowd There was no mother's son but said, 'What is the figure in a shroud Upon a gaudy bed?'

And fishes bubbling to the brim Cried out upon that thing beneath, --It had such dignity of limb-- By the sweet name of Death.

Though I'd my finger on my lip, What could I but take up the song? And fish and crowd and gaudy ship Cried out the whole night long,

Crying amid the glittering sea, Naming it with ecstatic breath, Because it had such dignity By the sweet name of Death.

A WOMAN HOMER SUNG

If any man drew near When I was young, I thought, 'He holds her dear,' And shook with hate and fear. But oh, 'twas bitter wrong If he could pass her by With an indifferent eye.

Whereon I wrote and wrought, And now, being grey, I dream that I have brought To such a pitch my thought That coming time can say, 'He shadowed in a glass What thing her body was.'

For she had fiery blood When I was young, And trod so sweetly proud As 'twere upon a cloud, A woman Homer sung, That life and letters seem But an heroic dream.

THE CONSOLATION

I had this thought awhile ago, 'My darling cannot understand What I have done, or what would do In this blind bitter land.'

And I grew weary of the sun Until my thoughts cleared up again, Remembering that the best I have done Was done to make it plain;

That every year I have cried, 'At length My darling understands it all, Because I have come into my strength, And words obey my call.'

That had she done so who can say What would have shaken from the sieve? I might have thrown poor words away And been content to live.

NO SECOND TROY

Why should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage equal to desire? What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this, Being high and solitary and most stern? Why, what could she have done being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?

RECONCILIATION