THE STOLEN CHILD
Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the
lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons
wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There weve hid our
faery vats,
Full of berries
And of reddest stolen
cherries.
Come away, O human
child!
To the waters and the
wild
With a faery, hand in
hand,
For the worlds more
full of weeping
than you
can understand.
Where the wave of moonlight
glosses
The dim grey sands with
light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling
glances
Till the moon has taken
flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full
of troubles
And is anxious in its
sleep.
Come away, O human
child!
To the waters and the
wild
With a faery, hand in
hand,
For the worlds more
full of weeping
than you
can understand.
Where the wandering
water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe
a star,
We seek for slumbering
trout
And whispering in their
ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their
tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human
child!
To the waters and the
wild
With a faery, hand in
hand,
For the worlds more
full of weeping
than you
can understand.
Away with us hes
going,
The solemn-eyed:
Hell hear no more
the lowing
Of the calves on the warm
hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice
bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
Come away, O human
child!
To the waters and the
wild
With a faery, hand in
hand,
For the worlds more
full of weeping
than you
can understand.
1886
DOWN BY THE SALLEY
GARDENS
Down by the salley gardens
my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley
gardens with little snow-white
feet.
She bid me take love easy,
as the leaves grow on
the tree;
But I, being young and
foolish, with her would
not agree.
In a field by the
river my love and I did
stand,
And on my leaning shoulder
she laid her snow-white
hand.
She bid me take life easy,
as the grass grows on
the weirs;
But I was young and foolish,
and now am full of tears.
1886
THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE
I will arise and go now,
and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build
there, of clay and wattles
made:
Nine bean-rows will I
have there, a hive for
the honeybee,
And live alone in the
bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some
peace there, for peace
comes
dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils
of the morning to where
the cricket
sings;
There midnights
all a glimmer, and noon
a purple glow,
And evening full of the
linnets wings.
I will arise and go
now, for always night
and day
I hear lake water lapping
with low sounds by the
shore;
While I stand on the roadway,
or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep
hearts core.
1890
WHEN YOU ARE OLD
When you are old and grey
and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire,
take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream
of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and
of their shadows deep;
How many loved your
moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty
with love false or true,
But one man loved the
pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows
of your changing face;
And bending down beside
the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly,
how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains
overhead
And hid his face amid
a crowd of stars.
1892
THE SONG OF WANDERING
AENGUS
I went out to the hazel
wood,
Because a fire was in
my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel
wand,
And hooked a berry to
a thread;
And when white moths were
on the wing,
And moth-like stars were
flickering out,
I dropped the berry in
a stream
And caught a little silver
trout.
When I had laid it on
the floor
I went to blow the fire
aflame,
But something rustled
on the floor,
And some one called me
by my name:
It had become a glimmering
girl
With apple blossom in
her hair
Who called me by my name
and ran
And faded through the
brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lads and
hilly lands.
I will find out where
she has gone,
And kiss her lips and
take her hands;
And walk among long dappled
grass,
And pluck till time and
times are done
The silver apples of the
moon,
The golden apples of the
sun.
1897
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RED HANRAHANS
SONG ABOUT IRELAND
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.
1894
THE SECRET ROSE
Far-off, most secret,
and inviolate Rose,
Enfold me in my hour of
hours; where those
Who sought thee in the
Holy Sepulchre,
Or in the wine-vat, dwell
beyond the stir
And tumult of defeated
dreams; and deep
Among pale eyelids, heavy
with the sleep
Men have named beauty.
Thy great leaves enfold
The ancient beards, the
helms of ruby and gold
Of the crowned Magi; and
the king whose eyes
Saw the pierced Hands
and Rood of elder rise
In Druid vapour and make
the torches dim;
Till vain frenzy awoke
and he died; and him
Who met Fand walking among
flaming dew
By a grey shore where
the wind never blew,
And lost the world and
Emer for a kiss;
And him who drove the
gods out of their liss,
And till a hundred morns
had flowered red
Feasted, and wept the
barrows of his dead;
And the proud dreaming
king who flung the crown
And sorrow away, and calling
bard and clown
Dwelt among wine-stained
wanderers in deep woods:
And him who sold tillage,
and house, and goods,
And sought through lands
and islands numberless
years,
Until he found, with laughter
and with tears,
A woman of so shining
loveliness
That men threshed corn
at midnight by a tress,
A little stolen tress.
I, too, await
The hour of thy great
wind of love and hate.
When shall the stars be
blown about the sky,
Like the sparks blown
out of a smithy, and die?
Surely thine hour has
come, thy great wind blows,
Far-off, most secret,
and inviolate Rose?
1896
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?
1910
UPON A HOUSE SHAKEN
BY THE LAND AGITATION
How should the world be
luckier if this house,
Where passion and precision
have been one
Time out of mind, became
too ruinous
To breed the lidless eye
that loves the sun?
And the sweet laughing
eagle thoughts that grow
Where wings have memory
of wings, and all
That comes of the best
knit to the best? Although
Mean roof-trees were the
sturdier for its fall.
How should their luck
run high enough to reach
The gifts that govern
men, and after these
To gradual Times
last gift, a written speech
Wrought of high laughter,
loveliness and ease?
1910
SEPTEMBER 1913
What need you, being come
to sense,
But fumble in a greasy
till
And add the halfpence
to the pence
And prayer to shivering
prayer, until
You have dried the marrow
from the bone?
For men were born to pray
and save:
Romantic Irelands
dead and gone,
Its with OLeary
in the grave.
Yet they were of a
different kind,
The names that stilled
your childish play,
They have gone about the
world like wind,
But little time had they
to pray
For whom the hangmans
rope was spun,
And what, God help us,
could they save?
Romantic Irelands
dead and gone,
Its with OLeary
in the grave.
Was it for this the
wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every
tide;
For this that all that
blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald
died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe
Tone,
All that delirium of the
brave?
Romantic Irelands
dead and gone,
Its with OLeary
in the grave.
Yet could we turn the
years again,
And call those exiles
as they were
In all their loneliness
and pain,
Youd cry, "Some
womans yellow hair
Has maddened every mothers
son:
They weighed so lightly
what they gave.
But let them be, theyre
dead and gone,
Theyre with OLeary
in the grave.
1913
THE MAGI
Now as at all times I
can see in the minds
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 Calvarys
turbulence unsatisfied,
The uncontrollable mystery
on the bestial floor.
1914
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