Part 2

Come, May, and hang a white flag on each thorn, Make truce with earth and heaven; the April child Now hides her sulky face deep in the morn Of your new flowers by the water wild And in the ripples of the rising grass, And rushes bent to let the south wind pass On with her tumult of swift nomad wings, And broken domes of downy dandelion. Only in spasms now the blackbird sings. The hour is all a-dream. Nets of woodbine Throw woven shadows over dreaming flowers, And dreaming, a bee-luring lily bends Its tender bell where blue dyke-water cowers Thro' briars, and folded ferns, and gripping ends Of wild convolvulus. The lark's sky-way Is desolate. I watch an apple-spray Beckon across a wall as if it knew I wait the calling of the orchard maid.

Inly I feel that she will come in blue, With yellow on her hair, and two curls strayed Out of her comb's loose stocks, and I shall steal Behind and lay my hands upon her eyes, "Look not, but be my Psyche!" And her peal Of laughter will ring far, and as she tries For freedom I will call her names of flowers That climb up walls; then thro' the twilight hours We'll talk about the loves of ancient queens, And kisses like wasp-honey, false and sweet, And how we are entangled in love's snares Like wind-looped flowers.

EVENING IN MAY

There is nought tragic here, tho' night uplifts A narrow curtain where the footlights burned, But one long act where Love each bold heart sifts And blushes in the dark, but has not spurned The strong resolve of noon. The maiden's head Is brown upon the shoulder of her youth, Hearts are exchanged, long pent up words are said, Blushes burn out at the long tale of truth.

The blackbird blows his yellow flute so strong, And rolls away the notes in careless glee, It breaks the rhythm of the thrushes' song, And puts red shame upon his rivalry. The yellowhammers on the roof tiles beat Sweet little dulcimers to broken time, And here the robin with a heart replete Has all in one short plagiarised rhyme.

AN ATTEMPT AT A CITY SUNSET

(TO J. K. Q.)

There was a quiet glory in the sky When thro' the gables sank the large red sun, And toppling mounts of rugged cloud went by Heavy with whiteness, and the moon had won Her way above the woods, with her small star Behind her like the cuckoo's little mother.... It was the hour when visions from some far Strange Eastern dreams like twilight bats take wing Out of the ruin of memories. O brother Of high song, wand'ring where the Muses fling Rich gifts as prodigal as winter rain, Like stepping-stones within a swollen river The hidden words are sounding in my brain, Too wild for taming; and I must for ever Think of the hills upon the wilderness, And leave the city sunset to your song. For there I am a stranger like the trees That sigh upon the traffic all day long.

WAITING

A strange old woman on the wayside sate, Looked far away and shook her head and sighed. And when anon, close by, a rusty gate Loud on the warm winds cried, She lifted up her eyes and said, "You're late." Then shook her head and sighed.

And evening found her thus, and night in state Walked thro' the starlight, and a heavy tide Followed the yellow moon around her wait, And morning walked in wide. She lifted up her eyes and said, "You're late." Then shook her head and sighed.

THE SINGER'S MUSE

I brought in these to make her kitchen sweet, Haw blossoms and the roses of the lane. Her heart seemed in her eyes so wild they beat With welcome for the boughs of Spring again. She never heard of Babylon or Troy, She read no book, but once saw Dublin town; Yet she made a poet of her servant boy And from Parnassus earned the laurel crown.

If Fame, the Gorgon, turns me into stone Upon some city square, let someone place Thorn blossoms and lane roses newly blown Beside my feet, and underneath them trace: "His heart was like a bookful of girls' song, With little loves and mighty Care's alloy. These did he bring his muse, and suffered long, Her bashful singer and her servant boy."

INAMORATA

The bees were holding levees in the flowers, Do you remember how each puff of wind Made every wing a hum? My hand in yours Was listening to your heart, but now The glory is all faded, and I find No more the olden mystery of the hours When you were lovely and our hearts would bow Each to the will of each, but one bright day Is stretching like an isthmus in a bay From the glad years that I have left behind.

I look across the edge of things that were And you are lovely in the April ways, Holy and mute, the sigh of my despair.... I hear once more the linnets' April tune Beyond the rainbow's warp, as in the days You brought me facefuls of your smiles to share Some of your new-found wonders.... Oh when soon I'm wandering the wide seas for other lands, Sometimes remember me with folded hands, And keep me happy in your pious prayer.

THE WIFE OF LLEW

And Gwydion said to Math, when it was Spring: "Come now and let us make a wife for Llew." And so they broke broad boughs yet moist with dew, And in a shadow made a magic ring: They took the violet and the meadow-sweet To form her pretty face, and for her feet They built a mound of daisies on a wing, And for her voice they made a linnet sing In the wide poppy blowing for her mouth. And over all they chanted twenty hours. And Llew came singing from the azure south And bore away his wife of birds and flowers.

THE HILLS

The hills are crying from the fields to me, And calling me with music from a choir Of waters in their woods where I can see The bloom unfolded on the whins like fire. And, as the evening moon climbs ever higher And blots away the shadows from the slope, They cry to me like things devoid of hope.

Pigeons are home. Day droops. The fields are cold. Now a slow wind comes labouring up the sky With a small cloud long steeped in sunset gold, Like Jason with the precious fleece anigh The harbour of Iolcos. Day's bright eye Is filmed with the twilight, and the rill Shines like a scimitar upon the hill.

And moonbeams drooping thro' the coloured wood Are full of little people winged white. I'll wander thro' the moon-pale solitude That calls across the intervening night With river voices at their utmost height, Sweet as rain-water in the blackbird's flute That strikes the world in admiration mute.

JUNE

Broom out the floor now, lay the fender by, And plant this bee-sucked bough of woodbine there, And let the window down. The butterfly Floats in upon the sunbeam, and the fair Tanned face of June, the nomad gipsy, laughs Above her widespread wares, the while she tells The farmers' fortunes in the fields, and quaffs The water from the spider-peopled wells.

The hedges are all drowned in green grass seas, And bobbing poppies flare like Elmor's light, While siren-like the pollen-stainéd bees Drone in the clover depths. And up the height The cuckoo's voice is hoarse and broke with joy. And on the lowland crops the crows make raid, Nor fear the clappers of the farmer's boy, Who sleeps, like drunken Noah, in the shade.

And loop this red rose in that hazel ring That snares your little ear, for June is short And we must joy in it and dance and sing, And from her bounty draw her rosy worth. Ay! soon the swallows will be flying south, The wind wheel north to gather in the snow, Even the roses spilt on youth's red mouth Will soon blow down the road all roses go.

IN MANCHESTER

There is a noise of feet that move in sin Under the side-faced moon here where I stray, Want by me like a Nemesis. The din Of noon is in my ears, but far away My thoughts are, where Peace shuts the black-birds' wings And it is cherry time by all the springs.

And this same moon floats like a trail of fire Down the long Boyne, and darts white arrows thro' The mill wood; her white skirt is on the weir, She walks thro' crystal mazes of the dew, And rests awhile upon the dewy slope Where I will hope again the old, old hope.

With wandering we are worn my muse and I, And, if I sing, my song knows nought of mirth. I often think my soul is an old lie In sackcloth, it repents so much of birth. But I will build it yet a cloister home Near the peace of lakes when I have ceased to roam.

MUSIC ON WATER

Where does Remembrance weep when we forget? From whither brings she back an old delight? Why do we weep that once we laughed? and yet Why are we sad that once our hearts were light? I sometimes think the days that we made bright Are damned within us, and we hear them yell, Deep in the solitude of that wide hell, Because we welcome in some new regret.

I will remember with sad heart next year This music and this water, but to-day Let me be part of all this joy. My ear Caught far-off music which I bid away, The light of one fair face that fain would stay Upon the heart's broad canvas, as the Face On Mary's towel, lighting up the place. Too sad for joy, too happy for a tear.

Methinks I see the music like a light Low on the bobbing water, and the fields Yellow and brown alternate on the height, Hanging in silence there like battered shields, Lean forward heavy with their coloured yields As if they paid it homage; and the strains, Prisoners of Echo, up the sunburnt plains Fade on the cross-cut to a future night.

In the red West the twisted moon is low, And on the bubbles there are half-lit stars: Music and twilight and the deep blue flow Of water: and the watching fire of Mars: The deep fish slipping thro' the moonlit bars Make Death a thing of sweet dreams, life a mock. And the soul patient by the heart's loud clock Watches the time, and thinks it wondrous slow.

TO M. McG.

(WHO CAME ONE DAY WHEN WE WERE ALL GLOOMY AND CHEERED US WITH SAD MUSIC)

We were all sad and could not weep, Because our sorrow had not tears: You came a silent thing like Sleep, And stole away our fears.

Old memories knocking at each heart Troubled us with the world's great lie: You sat a little way apart And made a fiddle cry,

And April with her sunny showers Came laughing up the fields again: White wings went flashing thro' the hours So lately full of pain.

And rivers full of little lights Came down the fields of waving green: Our immemorial delights Stole in on us unseen.

For this may Good Luck let you loose Upon her treasures many years, And Peace unfurl her flag of truce To any threat'ning fears.

IN THE DUSK

Day hangs its light between two dusks, my heart, Always beyond the dark there is the blue. Sometime we'll leave the dark, myself and you, And revel in the light for evermore. But the deep pain of you is aching smart, And a long calling weighs upon you sore.

Day hangs its light between two dusks, and song Is there at the beginning and the end. You, in the singing dusk, how could you wend The songless way Contentment fleetly wings? But in the dark your beauty shall be strong, Tho' only one should listen how it sings.

THE DEATH OF AILILL

When there was heard no more the war's loud sound, And only the rough corn-crake filled the hours, And hill winds in the furze and drowsy flowers, Maeve in her chamber with her white head bowed On Ailill's heart was sobbing: "I have found The way to love you now," she said, and he Winked an old tear away and said: "The proud Unyielding heart loves never." And then she: "I love you now, tho' once when we were young We walked apart like two who were estranged Because I loved you not, now all is changed." And he who loved her always called her name And said: "You do not love me, 'tis your tongue Talks in the dusk; you love the blazing gold Won in the battles, and the soldier's fame. You love the stories that are often told By poets in the hall." Then Maeve arose And sought her daughter Findebar: "O, child, Go tell your father that my love went wild With all my wars in youth, and say that now I love him stronger than I hate my foes...." And Findebar unto her father sped And touched him gently on the rugged brow, And knew by the cold touch that he was dead.

AUGUST

She'll come at dusky first of day, White over yellow harvest's song. Upon her dewy rainbow way She shall be beautiful and strong. The lidless eye of noon shall spray Tan on her ankles in the hay, Shall kiss her brown the whole day long.

I'll know her in the windrows, tall Above the crickets of the hay. I'll know her when her odd eyes fall, One May-blue, one November-grey. I'll watch her from the red barn wall Take down her rusty scythe, and call, And I will follow her away.

THE VISITATION OF PEACE

I closed the book of verse where Sorrow wept Above Love's broken fane where Hope once prayed, And thought of old trysts broken and trysts kept Only to chide my fondness. Then I strayed Down a green coil of lanes where murmuring wings Moved up and down like lights upon the sea, Searching for calm amid untroubled things Of wood and water. The industrious bee Sang in his barn within the hollow beech, And in a distant haggard a loud mill Hummed like a war of hives. A whispered speech Of corn and wind was on the yellow hill, And tattered scarecrows nodded their assent And waved their arms like orators. The brown Nude beauty of the Autumn sweetly bent Over the woods, across the little town.

I sat in a retreating shade beside The river, where it fell across a weir Like a white mane, and in a flourish wide Roars by an island field and thro' a tier Of leaning sallies, like an avenue When the moon's flambeau hunts the shadows out And strikes the borders white across the dew. Where little ringlets ended, the fleet trout Fed on the water moths. A marsh hen crossed On flying wings and swimming feet to where Her mate was in the rushes forest, tossed On the heaving dusk like swallows in the air.

Beyond the river a walled rood of graves Hung dead with all its hemlock wan and sere, Save where the wall was broken and long waves Of yellow grass flowed outward like a weir, As if the dead were striving for more room And their old places in the scheme of things; For sometimes the thought comes that the brown tomb Is not the end of all our labourings, But we are born once more of wind and rain, To sow the world with harvest young and strong, That men may live by men 'til the stars wane, And still sweet music fill the blackbird's song.

But O for truths about the soul denied. Shall I meet Keats in some wild isle of balm, Dreaming beside a tarn where green and wide Boughs of sweet cinnamon protect the calm Of the dark water? And together walk Thro' hills with dimples full of water where White angels rest, and all the dead years talk About the changes of the earth? Despair Sometimes takes hold of me but yet I hope To hope the old hope in the better times When I am free to cast aside the rope That binds me to all sadness 'till my rhymes Cry like lost birds. But O, if I should die Ere this millennium, and my hands be crossed Under the flowers I loved, the passers-by Shall scowl at me as one whose soul is lost.

But a soft peace came to me when the West Shut its red door and a thin streak of moon Was twisted on the twilight's dusky breast. It wrapped me up as sometimes a sweet tune Heard for the first time wraps the scenes around, That we may have their memories when some hand Strikes it in other times and hopes unbound Rising see clear the everlasting land.

BEFORE THE TEARS

You looked as sad as an eclipséd moon Above the sheaves of harvest, and there lay A light lisp on your tongue, and very soon The petals of your deep blush fell away; White smiles that come with an uneasy grace From inner sorrow crossed your forehead fair, When the wind passing took your scattered hair And flung it like a brown shower in my face.

Tear-fringéd winds that fill the heart's low sighs And never break upon the bosom's pain, But blow unto the windows of the eyes Their misty promises of silver rain, Around your loud heart ever rose and fell. I thought 'twere better that the tears should come And strike your every feeling wholly numb, So thrust my hand in yours and shook fare-well.

GOD'S REMEMBRANCE

There came a whisper from the night to me Like music of the sea, a mighty breath From out the valley's dewy mouth, and Death Shook his lean bones, and every coloured tree Wept in the fog of morning. From the town Of nests among the branches one old crow With gaps upon his wings flew far away. And, thinking of the golden summer glow, I heard a blackbird whistle half his lay Among the spinning leaves that slanted down.

And I who am a thought of God's now long Forgotten in His Mind, and desolate With other dreams long over, as a gate Singing upon the wind the anvil song, Sang of the Spring when first He dreamt of me In that old town all hills and signs that creak:-- And He remembered me as something far In old imaginations, something weak With distance, like a little sparking star Drowned in the lavender of evening sea.

AN OLD PAIN

What old, old pain is this that bleeds anew? What old and wandering dream forgotten long Hobbles back to my mind? With faces two, Like Janus of old Rome, I look about, And yet discover not what ancient wrong Lies unrequited still. No speck of doubt Upon to-morrow's promise. Yet a pain Of some dumb thing is on me, and I feel How men go mad, how faculties do reel When these old querns turn round within the brain.

'Tis something to have known one day of joy, Now to remember when the heart is low, An antidote of thought that will destroy The asp bite of Regret. Deep will I drink By'n by the purple cups that overflow, And fill the shattered heart's urn to the brink. But some are dead who laughed! Some scattered are Around the sultry breadth of foreign zones. You, with the warm clay wrapt about your bones, Are nearer to me than the live afar.

My heart has grown as dry as an old crust, Deep in book lumber and moth-eaten wood, So long it has forgot the old love lust, So long forgot the thing that made youth dear, Two blue love lamps, a heart exceeding good, And how, when first I heard that voice ring clear Among the sering hedges of the plain, I knew not which from which beyond the corn, The laughter by the callow twisted thorn, The jay-thrush whistling in the haws for rain.

I hold the mind is the imprisoned soul, And all our aspirations are its own Struggles and strivings for a golden goal, That wear us out like snow men at the thaw. And we shall make our Heaven where we have sown Our purple longings. Oh! can the loved dead draw Anear us when we moan, or watching wait Our coming in the woods where first we met, The dead leaves falling on their wild hair wet, Their hands upon the fastenings of the gate?

This is the old, old pain come home once more, Bent down with answers wild and very lame For all my delving in old dog-eared lore That drove the Sages mad. And boots the world Aught for their wisdom? I have asked them, tame, And watched the Earth by its own self be hurled Atom by atom into nothingness, Loll out of the deep canyons, drops of fixe, And kindle on the hills its funeral pyre, And all we learn but shows we know the less.

THE LOST ONES

Somewhere is music from the linnets, bills, And thro' the sunny flowers the bee-wings drone, And white bells of convolvulus on hills Of quiet May make silent ringing, blown Hither and thither by the wind of showers, And somewhere all the wandering birds have flown; And the brown breath of Autumn chills the flowers.

But where are all the loves of long ago? Oh, little twilight ship blown up the tide, Where are the faces laughing in the glow Of morning years, the lost ones scattered wide? Give me your hand, Oh brother, let us go Crying about the dark for those who died.

ALL-HALLOWS EVE

The dreadful hour is sighing for a moon To light old lovers to the place of tryst, And old footsteps from blessed acres soon On old known pathways will be lightly prest; And winds that went to eavesdrop since the noon, Kinking[1] at some old tale told sweetly brief, Will give a cowslick[2] to the yarrow leaf,[3] And sling the round nut from the hazel down.

And there will be old yarn balls,[4] and old spells In broken lime-kilns, and old eyes will peer For constant lovers in old spidery wells,[5] And old embraces will grow newly dear. And some may meet old lovers in old dells, And some in doors ajar in towns light-lorn;-- But two will meet beneath a gnarly thorn Deep in the bosom of the windy fells.

Then when the night slopes home and white-faced day Yawns in the east there will be sad farewells; And many feet will tap a lonely way Back to the comfort of their chilly cells, And eyes will backward turn and long to stay Where love first found them in the clover bloom-- But one will never seek the lonely tomb, And two will linger at the tryst alway.

[Footnote 1: Provincially a kind of laughter.]

[Footnote 2: A curl of hair thrown back from the forehead: used metaphorically here, and itself a metaphor taken from the curl of a cow's tongue.]

[Footnote 3: Maidens on Hallows Eve pull leaves of yarrow, and, saying over them certain words, put them under their pillows and so dream of their true-loves.]

[Footnote 4: They also throw balls of yarn (which must be black) over their left shoulders into old lime-kilns, holding one end and then winding it in till they feel it somehow caught, and expect to see in the darkness the face of their lover.]

[Footnote 5: Also they look for his face in old wells.]

A MEMORY

Low sounds of night that drip upon the ear, The plumed lapwing's cry, the curlew's call, Clear in the far dark heard, a sound as drear As raindrops pelted from a nodding rush To give a white wink once and broken fall Into a deep dark pool: they pain the hush, As if the fiery meteor's slanting lance Had found their empty craws: they fill with sound The silence, with the merry round, The sounding mazes of a last year's dancer