Part 5

You and I to the South again, And heart! Oh, heart, how you shall sigh, For the kind soft wind that follows the rain, And the raindrop shed from the daisy's eye.

THE HERONS

As I was climbing Ardan Mor From the shore of Sheelan lake, I met the herons coming down Before the water's wake.

And they were talking in their flight Of dreamy ways the herons go When all the hills are withered up Nor any waters flow.

IN THE SHADOWS

The silent music of the flowers Wind-mingled shall not fail to cheer The lonely hours When I no more am here.

Then in some shady willow place Take up the book my heart has made, And hide your face Against my name which was a shade.

THE SHIPS OF ARCADY

Thro' the faintest filigree Over the dim waters go Little ships of Arcady When the morning moon is low.

I can hear the sailors' song From the blue edge of the sea, Passing like the lights along Thro' the dusky filigree.

Then where moon and waters meet Sail by sail they pass away, With little friendly winds replete Blowing from the breaking day.

And when the little ships have flown, Dreaming still of Arcady I look across the waves, alone In the misty filigree.

AFTER

And in the after silences Of flower-lit distances I'll be, And who would find me travels far In lands unsung of minstrelsy. Strong winds shall cross my secret way, And planet mountains hide my goal, I shall go on from pass to pass, By monstrous rocks, a lonely soul.

TO ONE WEEPING

Maiden, these are sacred tears, Let me not disturb your grief! Had I but your bosom's fears I should weep, nor seek relief.

My woe is a silent woe 'Til I give it measured rhyme, When the blackbird's flute is low In my heart at singing time.

A DREAM DANCE

Maeve held a ball on the dún, Cuculain and Eimer were there, In the light of an old broken moon I was dancing with Deirdre the fair.

How loud was the laughter of Finn As he blundered about thro' a reel, Tripping up Caoilte the thin, Or jostling the dreamy Aleel.

And when the dance ceased for a song, How sweet was the singing of Fand, We could hear her far, wandering along, My hand in that beautiful hand.

BY FAUGHAN

For hills and woods and streams unsung I pipe above a rippled cove. And here the weaver autumn hung Between the hills a wind she wove From sounds the hills remember yet Of purple days and violet.

The hills stand up to trip the sky, Sea-misted, and along the tops Wing after wing goes summer by, And many a little roadway stops And starts, and struggles to the sea, Cutting them up in filigree.

Twixt wind and silence Faughan flows, In music broken over rocks, Like mingled bells the poet knows Ring in the fields of Eastern flocks. And here this song for you I find Between the silence and the wind.

IN SEPTEMBER

Still are the meadowlands, and still Ripens the upland corn, And over the brown gradual hill The moon has dipped a horn.

The voices of the dear unknown With silent hearts now call, My rose of youth is overblown And trembles to the fall.

My song forsakes me like the birds That leave the rain and grey, I hear the music of the words My lute can never say.

LAST SONGS

TO AN OLD QUILL OF LORD DUNSANY'S

Before you leave my hands' abuses To lie where many odd things meet you, Neglected darkling of the Muses, I, the last of singers, greet you.

Snug in some white wing they found you, On the Common bleak and muddy, Noisy goslings gobbling round you In the pools of sunset, ruddy.

Have you sighed in wings untravelled For the heights where others view the Bluer widths of heaven, and marvelled At the utmost top of Beauty?

No! it cannot be; the soul you Sigh with craves nor begs of us. From such heights a poet stole you From a wing of Pegasus.

You have been where gods were sleeping In the dawn of new creations, Ere they woke to woman's weeping At the broken thrones of nations.

You have seen this old world shattered By old gods it disappointed, Lying up in darkness, battered By wild comets, unanointed.

But for Beauty unmolested Have you still the sighing olden? I know mountains heather-crested, Waters white, and waters golden.

There I'd keep you, in the lowly Beauty-haunts of bird and poet, Sailing in a wing, the holy Silences of lakes below it.

But I leave you by where no man Finds you, when I too be gone From the puddles on this common Over the dark Rubicon.

_Londonderry,_

_September 18th, 1916._

TO A SPARROW

Because you have no fear to mingle Wings with those of greater part, So like me, with song I single Your sweet impudence of heart.

And when prouder feathers go where Summer holds her leafy show, You still come to us from nowhere Like grey leaves across the snow.

In back ways where odd and end go To your meals you drop down sure, Knowing every broken window Of the hospitable poor.

There is no bird half so harmless, None so sweetly rude as you, None so common and so charmless, None of virtues nude as you.

But for all your faults I love you, For you linger with us still, Though the wintry winds reprove you And the snow is on the hill.

_Londonderry,_

_September 20th, 1916._

OLD CLO'

I was just coming in from the garden, Or about to go fishing for eels, And, smiling, I asked you to pardon My boots very low at the heels. And I thought that you never would go, As you stood in the doorway ajar, For my heart would keep saying, "Old Clo', You're found out at last as you are."

I was almost ashamed to acknowledge That I was the quarry you sought, For was I not bred in a college And reared in a mansion, you thought. And now in the latest style cut With fortune more kinder I go To welcome you half-ways. Ah! but I was nearer the gods when "Old Clo'."

YOUTH

She paved the way with perfume sweet Of flowers that moved like winds alight, And never weary grew my feet Wandering through the spring's delight.

She dropped her sweet fife to her lips And lured me with her melodies, To where the great big wandering ships Put out into the peaceful seas.

But when the year grew chill and brown, And all the wings of Summer flown, Within the tumult of a town She left me to grow old alone.

THE LITTLE CHILDREN

Hunger points a bony finger To the workhouse on the hill, But the little children linger While there's flowers to gather still For my sunny window sill.

In my hands I take their faces, Smiling to my smiles they run. Would that I could take their places Where the murky bye-ways shun The benedictions of the sun.

How they laugh and sing returning Lightly on their secret way. While I listen in my yearning Their laughter fills the windy day With gladness, youth and May.

AUTUMN

Now leafy winds are blowing cold, And South by West the sun goes down, A quiet huddles up the fold In sheltered corners of the brown.

Like scattered fire the wild fruit strews The ground beneath the blowing tree, And there the busy squirrel hews His deep and secret granary.

And when the night comes starry clear, The lonely quail complains beside The glistening waters on the mere Where widowed Beauties yet abide.

And I, too, make my own complaint Upon a reed I plucked in June, And love to hear it echoed faint Upon another heart in tune.

_Londonderry,_

_September 29th, 1916._

IRELAND

I called you by sweet names by wood and linn, You answered not because my voice was new, And you were listening for the hounds of Finn And the long hosts of Lugh.

And so, I came unto a windy height And cried my sorrow, but you heard no wind, For you were listening to small ships in flight, And the wail on hills behind.

And then I left you, wandering the war Armed with will, from distant goal to goal, To find you at the last free as of yore, Or die to save your soul.

And then you called to us from far and near To bring your crown from out the deeps of time, It is my grief your voice I couldn't hear In such a distant clime.

LADY FAIR

Lady fair, have we not met In our lives elsewhere? Darkling in my mind to-night Faint fair faces dare Memory's old unfaithfulness To what was true and fair. Long of memory is Regret, But what Regret has taken flight Through my memory's silences? Lo! I turn it to the light. 'Twas but a pleasure in distress, Too faint and far off for redress. But some light glancing in your hair And in the liquid of your eyes Seem to murmur old good-byes In our lives elsewhere. Have we not met, Lady fair?

_Londonderry,_

_October 27th, 1916._

AT A POET'S GRAVE

When I leave down this pipe my friend And sleep with flowers I loved, apart, My songs shall rise in wilding things Whose roots are in my heart.

And here where that sweet poet sleeps I hear the songs he left unsung, When winds are fluttering the flowers And summer-bells are rung.

_November, 1916._

AFTER COURT MARTIAL

My mind is not my mind, therefore I take no heed of what men say, I lived ten thousand years before God cursed the town of Nineveh.

The Present is a dream I see Of horror and loud sufferings, At dawn a bird will waken me Unto my place among the kings.

And though men called me a vile name, And all my dream companions gone, 'Tis I the soldier bears the shame. Not I the king of Babylon.

A MOTHER'S SONG

Little ships of whitest pearl With sailors who were ancient kings, Come over the sea when my little girl Sings.

And if my little girl should weep, Little ships with torn sails Go headlong down among the deep Whales.

_November, 1916._

AT CURRABWEE

Every night at Currabwee Little men with leather hats Mend the boots of Faery From the tough wings of the bats. So my mother told to me, And she is wise you will agree.

Louder than a cricket's wing All night long their hammer's glee Times the merry songs they sing Of Ireland glorious and free. So I heard Joseph Plunkett say, You know he heard them but last May.

And when the night is very cold They warm their hands against the light Of stars that make the waters gold Where they are labouring all the night. So Pearse said, and he knew the truth, Among the stars he spent his youth.

And I, myself, have often heard Their singing as the stars went by, For am I not of those who reared The banner of old Ireland high, From Dublin town to Turkey's shores, And where the Vardar loudly roars?

_December, 1916._

SONG-TIME IS OVER

I will come no more awhile, O Song-time is over. A fire is burning in my heart, I was ever a rover.

You will hear me no more awhile, The birds are dumb, And a voice in the distance calls "Come," and "Come,"

_December 13th, 1916._

UNA BAWN

Una Bawn, the days are long, And the seas I cross are wide, I must go when Ireland needs, And you must bide.

And should I not return to you When the sails are on the tide, 'Tis you will find the days so long, Una Bawn, and I must bide.

_December 13th, 1916._

SPRING LOVE

I saw her coming through the flowery grass, Round her swift ankles butterfly and bee Blent loud and silent wings; I saw her pass Where foam-bows shivered on the sunny sea.

Then came the swallow crowding up the dawn, And cuckoo-echoes filled the dewy South. I left my love upon the hill, alone, My last kiss burning on her lovely mouth.

B.E.F.--_December 26th, 1916._

SOLILOQUY

When I was young I had a care Lest I should cheat me of my share Of that which makes it sweet to strive For life, and dying still survive, A name in sunshine written higher Than lark or poet dare aspire.

But I grew weary doing well, Besides, 'twas sweeter in that hell, Down with the loud banditti people Who robbed the orchards, climbed the steeple For jackdaws' eggs and made the cock Crow ere 'twas daylight on the clock. I was so very bad the neighbours Spoke of me at their daily labours.

And now I'm drinking wine in France, The helpless child of circumstance. To-morrow will be loud with war, How will I be accounted for?

It is too late now to retrieve A fallen dream, too late to grieve A name unmade, but not too late To thank the gods for what is great; A keen-edged sword, a soldier's heart, Is greater than a poet's art. And greater than a poet's fame A little grave that has no name.

DAWN

Quiet miles of golden sky, And in my heart a sudden flower. I want to clap my hands and cry For Beauty in her secret bower.

Quiet golden miles of dawn--Smiling all the East along; And in my heart nigh fully blown A little rose-bud of a song.

CEOL SIDHE[1]

When May is here, and every morn Is dappled with pied bells, And dewdrops glance along the thorn And wings flash in the dells, I take my pipe and play a tune Of dreams, a whispered melody, For feet that dance beneath the moon In fairy jollity.

And when the pastoral hills are grey And the dim stars are spread, A scamper fills the grass like play Of feet where fairies tread. And many a little whispering thing Is calling to the Shee. The dewy bells of evening ring, And all is melody.

_France,_

_December 29th, 1916._

[Footnote 1: Fairy music.]

THE RUSHES

The rushes nod by the river As the winds on the loud waves go, And the things they nod of are many, For it's many the secret they know.

And I think they are wise as the fairies Who lived ere the hills were high, They nod so grave by the river To everyone passing by.

If they would tell me their secrets I would go by a hidden way, To the rath when the moon retiring Dips dim horns into the gray.

And a fairy-girl out of Leinster In a long dance I should meet, My heart to her heart beating, My feet in rhyme with her feet.

_France,_ _January 6th, 1917._

THE DEAD KINGS

All the dead kings came to me At Rosnaree, where I was dreaming. A few stars glimmered through the morn, And down the thorn the dews were streaming.

And every dead king had a story Of ancient glory, sweetly told. It was too early for the lark, But the starry dark had tints of gold.

I listened to the sorrows three Of that Eirë passed into song. A cock crowed near a hazel croft, And up aloft dim larks winged strong.

And I, too, told the kings a story Of later glory, her fourth sorrow: There was a sound like moving shields In high green fields and the lowland furrow.

And one said: "We who yet are kings Have heard these things lamenting inly." Sweet music flowed from many a bill And on the hill the morn stood queenly.

And one said: "Over is the singing, And bell bough ringing, whence we come; With heavy hearts we'll tread the shadows, In honey meadows birds are dumb."

And one said: "Since the poets perished And all they cherished in the way, Their thoughts unsung, like petal showers Inflame the hours of blue and gray."

And one said: "A loud tramp of men We'll hear again at Rosnaree." A bomb burst near me where I lay. I woke, 'twas day in Picardy.

_France,_ _January 7th, 1917._

IN FRANCE

The silence of maternal hills Is round me in my evening dreams; And round me music-making bills And mingling waves of pastoral streams.

Whatever way I turn I find The path is old unto me still. The hills of home are in my mind, And there I wander as I will.

_February 3rd, 1917._

HAD I A GOLDEN POUND

(AFTER THE IRISH)

Had I a golden pound to spend, My love should mend and sew no more. And I would buy her a little quern, Easy to turn on the kitchen floor.

And for her windows curtains white, With birds in flight and flowers in bloom, To face with pride the road to town, And mellow down her sunlit room.

And with the silver change we'd prove The truth of Love to life's own end, With hearts the years could but embolden, Had I a golden pound to spend.

_February 5th, 1917._

FAIRIES

Maiden-poet, come with me To the heaped up cairn of Maeve, And there we'll dance a fairy dance Upon a fairy's grave.

In and out among the trees, Filling all the night with sound, The morning, strung upon her star, Shall chase us round and round.

What are we but fairies too, Living but in dreams alone, Or, at the most, but children still, Innocent and overgrown?

_February 6th,_ 1917.

IN A CAFÉ

Kiss the maid and pass her round, Lips like hers were made for many. Our loves are far from us to-night, But these red lips are sweet as any.

Let no empty glass be seen Aloof from our good table's sparkle, At the acme of our cheer Here are francs to keep the circle.

They are far who miss us most--Sip and kiss--how well we love them, Battling through the world to keep Their hearts at peace, their God above them.

_February 11th, 1917._

SPRING

Once more the lark with song and speed Cleaves through the dawn, his hurried bars Fall, like the flute of Ganymede Twirling and whistling from the stars.

The primrose and the daffodil Surprise the valleys, and wild thyme Is sweet on every little hill, When lambs come down at folding time.

In every wild place now is heard The magpie's noisy house, and through The mingled tunes of many a bird The ruffled wood-dove's gentle coo.

Sweet by the river's noisy brink The water-lily bursts her crown, The kingfisher comes down to drink Like rainbow jewels falling down.

And when the blue and grey entwine The daisy shuts her golden eye, And peaces-wraps all those hills of mine Safe in my dearest memory.

_France,_ _March 8th, 1917._

PAN

He knows the safe ways and unsafe And he will lead the lambs to fold, Gathering them with his merry pipe, The gentle and the overbold.

He counts them over one by one, And leads them back by cliff and steep, To grassy hills where dawn is wide, And they may run and skip and leap.

And just because he loves the lambs He settles them for rest at noon, And plays them on his oaten pipe The very wonder of a tune.

_France,_ _March 11th, 1917._

WITH FLOWERS

These have more language than my song, Take them and let them speak for me. I whispered them a secret thing Down the green lanes of Allary.

You shall remember quiet ways Watching them fade, and quiet eyes, And two hearts given up to love, A foolish and an overwise.

_France,_ _April, 1917._

THE FIND

I took a reed and blew a tune, And sweet it was and very clear To be about a little thing That only few hold dear.

Three times the cuckoo named himself, But nothing heard him on the hill, Where I was piping like an elf The air was very still.

'Tw'as all about a little thing I made a mystery of sound, I found it in a fairy ring Upon a fairy mound.

_June 2nd, 1917._

A FAIRY HUNT

Who would hear the fairy horn Calling all the hounds of Finn Must be in a lark's nest born When the moon is very thin.

I who have the gift can hear Hounds and horn and tally ho, And the tongue of Bran as clear As Christmas bells across the snow.

And beside my secret place Hurries by the fairy fox, With the moonrise on his face, Up and down the mossy rocks.

Then the music of a horn And the flash of scarlet men, Thick as poppies in the corn All across the dusky glen.

Oh! the mad delight of chase! Oh! the shouting and the cheer! Many an owl doth leave his place In the dusty tree to hear.

TO ONE WHO COMES NOW AND THEN

When you come in, it seems a brighter fire Crackles upon the hearth invitingly, The household routine which was wont to tire Grows full of novelty.

You sit upon our home-upholstered chair And talk of matters wonderful and strange, Of books, and travel, customs old which dare The gods of Time and Change.

Till we with inner word our care refute Laughing that this our bosoms yet assails, While there are maidens dancing to a flute In Andalusian vales.

And sometimes from my shelf of poems you take And secret meanings to our hearts disclose, As when the winds of June the mid bush shake We see the hidden rose.

And when the shadows muster, and each tree A moment flutters, full of shutting wings, You take the fiddle and mysteriously Wake wonders on the strings.

And in my garden, grey with misty flowers, Low echoes fainter than a beetle's horn Fill all the corners with it, like sweet showers Of bells, in the owl's morn.

Come often, friend, with welcome and surprise We'll greet you from the sea or from the town; Come when you like and from whatever skies Above you smile or frown.

_Belgium,_ _July 22nd, 1917_.

THE SYLPH

I saw you and I named a flower That lights with blue a woodland space, I named a bird of the red hour And a hidden fairy place.

And then I saw you not, and knew Dead leaves were whirling down the mist, And something lost was crying through An evening of amethyst.

HOME

A burst of sudden wings at dawn, Faint voices in a dreamy noon, Evenings of mist and murmurings, And nights with rainbows of the moon.

And through these things a wood-way dim, And waters dim, and slow sheep seen On uphill paths that wind away Through summer sounds and harvest green.

This is a song a robin sang This morning on a broken tree, It was about the little fields That call across the world to me.

_Belgium,_ _July, 1917._

THE LANAWN SHEE

Powdered and perfumed the full bee Winged heavily across the clover, And where the hills were dim with dew, Purple and blue the west leaned over.

A willow spray dipped in the stream, Moving a gleam of silver ringing, And by a finny creek a maid Filled all the shade with softest singing.

Listening, my heart and soul at strife, On the edge of life I seemed to hover, For I knew my love had come at last, That my joy was past and my gladness over.

I tiptoed gently tip and stooped Above her looped and shining tresses, And asked her of her kin and name, And why she came from fairy places.

She told me of a sunny coast Beyond the most adventurous sailor, Where she had spent a thousand years Out of the fears that now assail her.

And there, she told me, honey drops Out of the tops of ash and willow, And in the mellow shadow Sleep Doth sweetly keep her poppy pillow.

Nor Autumn with her brown line marks The time of larks, the length of roses, But song-time there is over never Nor flower-time ever, ever closes.

And wildly through uncurling ferns Fast water turns down valleys singing, Filling with scented winds the dales, Setting the bells of sleep a-ringing.

And when the thin moon lowly sinks, Through cloudy chinks a silver glory Lingers upon the left of night Till dawn delights the meadows hoary.