Suddenly I saw the cold and rook-delighting HeavenThat seemed as though ice burned and was but the more ice,And thereupon imagination and heart were drivenSo wild that every casual thought of that and thisVanished, and left but memories, that should be out of seasonWith 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 sentOut naked on the roads, as the books say, and strickenBy the injustice of the skies for punishment?
Suddenly I saw the cold and rook-delighting HeavenThat seemed as though ice burned and was but the more ice,And thereupon imagination and heart were drivenSo wild that every casual thought of that and thisVanished, and left but memories, that should be out of seasonWith 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 sentOut naked on the roads, as the books say, and strickenBy the injustice of the skies for punishment?
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?
She lived in storm and strife,Her soul had such desireFor what proud death may bringThat it could not endureThe common good of life,But lived as 'twere a kingThat packed his marriage dayWith banneret and pennon,Trumpet and kettledrum,And the outrageous cannon,To bundle time awayThat the night come.
She lived in storm and strife,Her soul had such desireFor what proud death may bringThat it could not endureThe common good of life,But lived as 'twere a kingThat packed his marriage dayWith banneret and pennon,Trumpet and kettledrum,And the outrageous cannon,To bundle time awayThat 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.
Being out of heart with governmentI took a broken root to flingWhere the proud, wayward squirrel went,Taking delight that he could spring;And he, with that low whinnying soundThat is like laughter, sprang againAnd so to the other tree at a bound.Nor the tame will, nor timid brain,Bred that fierce tooth and cleanly limbAnd threw him up to laugh on the bough;No government appointed him.
Being out of heart with governmentI took a broken root to flingWhere the proud, wayward squirrel went,Taking delight that he could spring;And he, with that low whinnying soundThat is like laughter, sprang againAnd so to the other tree at a bound.Nor the tame will, nor timid brain,Bred that fierce tooth and cleanly limbAnd threw him up to laugh on the bough;No government appointed him.
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.
Now as at all times I can see in the mind's eye,In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied onesAppear and disappear in the blue depth of the skyWith 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.
Now as at all times I can see in the mind's eye,In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied onesAppear and disappear in the blue depth of the skyWith 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.
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.
A doll in the doll-maker's houseLooks at the cradle and balls:'That is an insult to us.'But the oldest of all the dollsWho had seen, being kept for show,Generations of his sort,Out-screams the whole shelf: 'AlthoughThere's not a man can reportEvil of this place,The man and the woman bringHither to our disgrace,A noisy and filthy thing.'Hearing him groan and stretchThe doll-maker's wife is awareHer 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 doll in the doll-maker's houseLooks at the cradle and balls:'That is an insult to us.'But the oldest of all the dollsWho had seen, being kept for show,Generations of his sort,Out-screams the whole shelf: 'AlthoughThere's not a man can reportEvil of this place,The man and the woman bringHither to our disgrace,A noisy and filthy thing.'Hearing him groan and stretchThe doll-maker's wife is awareHer 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 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.'
I made my song a coatCovered with embroideriesOut of old mythologiesFrom heel to throat;But the fools caught it,Wore it in the world's eyeAs though they'd wrought it.Song, let them take itFor there's more enterpriseIn walking naked.
I made my song a coatCovered with embroideriesOut of old mythologiesFrom heel to throat;But the fools caught it,Wore it in the world's eyeAs though they'd wrought it.Song, let them take itFor there's more enterpriseIn walking naked.
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 whispererWho comes at need, although not now as onceA clear articulation in the airBut inwardly, surmise companionsBeyond the fling of the dull ass's hoof,—Ben Jonson's phrase—and find when June is comeAt Kyle-na-no under that ancient roofA 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 whileBeing but a part of ancient ceremony—Notorious, till all my priceless thingsAre but a post the passing dogs defile.
While I, from that reed-throated whispererWho comes at need, although not now as onceA clear articulation in the airBut inwardly, surmise companionsBeyond the fling of the dull ass's hoof,—Ben Jonson's phrase—and find when June is comeAt Kyle-na-no under that ancient roofA 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 whileBeing but a part of ancient ceremony—Notorious, till all my priceless thingsAre but a post the passing dogs defile.
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 HELMETAND OTHER POEMS
I swayed upon the gaudy sternThe butt end of a steering oar,And everywhere that I could turnMen ran upon the shore.And though I would have hushed the crowdThere was no mother's son but said,'What is the figure in a shroudUpon a gaudy bed?'And fishes bubbling to the brimCried 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 shipCried out the whole night long,Crying amid the glittering sea,Naming it with ecstatic breath,Because it had such dignityBy the sweet name of Death.
I swayed upon the gaudy sternThe butt end of a steering oar,And everywhere that I could turnMen ran upon the shore.
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 crowdThere was no mother's son but said,'What is the figure in a shroudUpon a gaudy bed?'
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 brimCried out upon that thing beneath,—It had such dignity of limb—By the sweet name of Death.
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 shipCried out the whole night long,
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 dignityBy the sweet name of Death.
Crying amid the glittering sea,
Naming it with ecstatic breath,
Because it had such dignity
By the sweet name of Death.
If any man drew nearWhen I was young,I thought, 'He holds her dear,'And shook with hate and fear.But oh, 'twas bitter wrongIf he could pass her byWith an indifferent eye.Whereon I wrote and wrought,And now, being grey,I dream that I have broughtTo such a pitch my thoughtThat coming time can say,'He shadowed in a glassWhat thing her body was.'For she had fiery bloodWhen I was young,And trod so sweetly proudAs 'twere upon a cloud,A woman Homer sung,That life and letters seemBut an heroic dream.
If any man drew nearWhen I was young,I thought, 'He holds her dear,'And shook with hate and fear.But oh, 'twas bitter wrongIf he could pass her byWith an indifferent eye.
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 broughtTo such a pitch my thoughtThat coming time can say,'He shadowed in a glassWhat thing her body was.'
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 bloodWhen I was young,And trod so sweetly proudAs 'twere upon a cloud,A woman Homer sung,That life and letters seemBut an heroic dream.
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.
I had this thought awhile ago,'My darling cannot understandWhat I have done, or what would doIn this blind bitter land.'And I grew weary of the sunUntil my thoughts cleared up again,Remembering that the best I have doneWas done to make it plain;That every year I have cried, 'At lengthMy darling understands it all,Because I have come into my strength,And words obey my call.'That had she done so who can sayWhat would have shaken from the sieve?I might have thrown poor words awayAnd been content to live.
I had this thought awhile ago,'My darling cannot understandWhat I have done, or what would doIn this blind bitter land.'
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 sunUntil my thoughts cleared up again,Remembering that the best I have doneWas done to make it plain;
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 lengthMy darling understands it all,Because I have come into my strength,And words obey my call.'
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 sayWhat would have shaken from the sieve?I might have thrown poor words awayAnd been content to live.
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.
Why should I blame her that she filled my daysWith misery, or that she would of lateHave 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 mindThat nobleness made simple as a fire,With beauty like a tightened bow, a kindThat 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?
Why should I blame her that she filled my daysWith misery, or that she would of lateHave 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 mindThat nobleness made simple as a fire,With beauty like a tightened bow, a kindThat 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?
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?
Some may have blamed you that you took awayThe verses that could move them on the dayWhen, the ears being deafened, the sight of the eyes blindWith lightning you went from me, and I could findNothing to make a song about but kings,Helmets, and swords, and half-forgotten thingsThat were like memories of you—but nowWe'll out, for the world lives as long ago;And while we're in our laughing, weeping fit,Hurl helmets, crowns, and swords into the pit.But, dear, cling close to me; since you were gone,My barren thoughts have chilled me to the bone.
Some may have blamed you that you took awayThe verses that could move them on the dayWhen, the ears being deafened, the sight of the eyes blindWith lightning you went from me, and I could findNothing to make a song about but kings,Helmets, and swords, and half-forgotten thingsThat were like memories of you—but nowWe'll out, for the world lives as long ago;And while we're in our laughing, weeping fit,Hurl helmets, crowns, and swords into the pit.But, dear, cling close to me; since you were gone,My barren thoughts have chilled me to the bone.
Some may have blamed you that you took away
The verses that could move them on the day
When, the ears being deafened, the sight of the eyes blind
With lightning you went from me, and I could find
Nothing to make a song about but kings,
Helmets, and swords, and half-forgotten things
That were like memories of you—but now
We'll out, for the world lives as long ago;
And while we're in our laughing, weeping fit,
Hurl helmets, crowns, and swords into the pit.
But, dear, cling close to me; since you were gone,
My barren thoughts have chilled me to the bone.
'Would it were anything but merely voice!'The No King cried who after that was King,Because he had not heard of anythingThat balanced with a word is more than noise;Yet Old Romance being kind, let him prevailSomewhere or somehow that I have forgot,Though he'd but cannon—Whereas we that had thoughtTo have lit upon as clean and sweet a taleHave been defeated by that pledge you gaveIn momentary anger long ago;And I that have not your faith, how shall I knowThat in the blinding light beyond the graveWe'll find so good a thing as that we have lost?The hourly kindness, the day's common speech,The habitual content of each with eachWhen neither soul nor body has been crossed.
'Would it were anything but merely voice!'The No King cried who after that was King,Because he had not heard of anythingThat balanced with a word is more than noise;Yet Old Romance being kind, let him prevailSomewhere or somehow that I have forgot,Though he'd but cannon—Whereas we that had thoughtTo have lit upon as clean and sweet a taleHave been defeated by that pledge you gaveIn momentary anger long ago;And I that have not your faith, how shall I knowThat in the blinding light beyond the graveWe'll find so good a thing as that we have lost?The hourly kindness, the day's common speech,The habitual content of each with eachWhen neither soul nor body has been crossed.
'Would it were anything but merely voice!'
The No King cried who after that was King,
Because he had not heard of anything
That balanced with a word is more than noise;
Yet Old Romance being kind, let him prevail
Somewhere or somehow that I have forgot,
Though he'd but cannon—Whereas we that had thought
To have lit upon as clean and sweet a tale
Have been defeated by that pledge you gave
In momentary anger long ago;
And I that have not your faith, how shall I know
That in the blinding light beyond the grave
We'll find so good a thing as that we have lost?
The hourly kindness, the day's common speech,
The habitual content of each with each
When neither soul nor body has been crossed.
Ah, that Time could touch a formThat could show what Homer's ageBred to be a hero's wage.'Were not all her life but storm,Would not painters paint a formOf such noble lines,' I said,'Such a delicate high head,All that sternness amid charm,All that sweetness amid strength?'Ah, but peace that comes at length,Came when Time had touched her form.
Ah, that Time could touch a formThat could show what Homer's ageBred to be a hero's wage.'Were not all her life but storm,Would not painters paint a formOf such noble lines,' I said,'Such a delicate high head,All that sternness amid charm,All that sweetness amid strength?'Ah, but peace that comes at length,Came when Time had touched her form.
Ah, that Time could touch a form
That could show what Homer's age
Bred to be a hero's wage.
'Were not all her life but storm,
Would not painters paint a form
Of such noble lines,' I said,
'Such a delicate high head,
All that sternness amid charm,
All that sweetness amid strength?'
Ah, but peace that comes at length,
Came when Time had touched her form.
O heart, be at peace, becauseNor knave nor dolt can breakWhat's not for their applause,Being for a woman's sake.Enough if the work has seemed,So did she your strength renew,A dream that a lion had dreamedTill the wilderness cried aloud,A secret between you two,Between the proud and the proud.What, still you would have their praise!But here's a haughtier text,The labyrinth of her daysThat her own strangeness perplexed;And how what her dreaming gaveEarned slander, ingratitude,From self-same dolt and knave;Aye, and worse wrong than these,Yet she, singing upon her road,Half lion, half child, is at peace.
O heart, be at peace, becauseNor knave nor dolt can breakWhat's not for their applause,Being for a woman's sake.Enough if the work has seemed,So did she your strength renew,A dream that a lion had dreamedTill the wilderness cried aloud,A secret between you two,Between the proud and the proud.
O heart, be at peace, because
Nor knave nor dolt can break
What's not for their applause,
Being for a woman's sake.
Enough if the work has seemed,
So did she your strength renew,
A dream that a lion had dreamed
Till the wilderness cried aloud,
A secret between you two,
Between the proud and the proud.
What, still you would have their praise!But here's a haughtier text,The labyrinth of her daysThat her own strangeness perplexed;And how what her dreaming gaveEarned slander, ingratitude,From self-same dolt and knave;Aye, and worse wrong than these,Yet she, singing upon her road,Half lion, half child, is at peace.
What, still you would have their praise!
But here's a haughtier text,
The labyrinth of her days
That her own strangeness perplexed;
And how what her dreaming gave
Earned slander, ingratitude,
From self-same dolt and knave;
Aye, and worse wrong than these,
Yet she, singing upon her road,
Half lion, half child, is at peace.
The fascination of what's difficultHas dried the sap out of my veins, and rentSpontaneous joy and natural contentOut of my heart. There's something ails our coltThat must, as if it had not holy blood,Nor on an Olympus leaped from cloud to cloud,Shiver under the lash, strain, sweat and joltAs though it dragged road metal. My curse on playsThat have to be set up in fifty ways,On the day's war with every knave and dolt,Theatre business, management of men.I swear before the dawn comes round againI'll find the stable and pull out the bolt.
The fascination of what's difficultHas dried the sap out of my veins, and rentSpontaneous joy and natural contentOut of my heart. There's something ails our coltThat must, as if it had not holy blood,Nor on an Olympus leaped from cloud to cloud,Shiver under the lash, strain, sweat and joltAs though it dragged road metal. My curse on playsThat have to be set up in fifty ways,On the day's war with every knave and dolt,Theatre business, management of men.I swear before the dawn comes round againI'll find the stable and pull out the bolt.
The fascination of what's difficult
Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent
Spontaneous joy and natural content
Out of my heart. There's something ails our colt
That must, as if it had not holy blood,
Nor on an Olympus leaped from cloud to cloud,
Shiver under the lash, strain, sweat and jolt
As though it dragged road metal. My curse on plays
That have to be set up in fifty ways,
On the day's war with every knave and dolt,
Theatre business, management of men.
I swear before the dawn comes round again
I'll find the stable and pull out the bolt.
Wine comes in at the mouthAnd love comes in at the eye;That's all we shall know for truthBefore we grow old and die.I lift the glass to my mouth,I look at you, and I sigh.
Wine comes in at the mouthAnd love comes in at the eye;That's all we shall know for truthBefore we grow old and die.I lift the glass to my mouth,I look at you, and I sigh.
Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That's all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.
Though leaves are many, the root is one;Through all the lying days of my youthI swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun;Now I may wither into the truth.
Though leaves are many, the root is one;Through all the lying days of my youthI swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun;Now I may wither into the truth.
Though leaves are many, the root is one;
Through all the lying days of my youth
I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun;
Now I may wither into the truth.
Where, where but here have Pride and Truth,That long to give themselves for wage,To shake their wicked sides at youthRestraining reckless middle-age.
Where, where but here have Pride and Truth,That long to give themselves for wage,To shake their wicked sides at youthRestraining reckless middle-age.
Where, where but here have Pride and Truth,
That long to give themselves for wage,
To shake their wicked sides at youth
Restraining reckless middle-age.
You say, as I have often given tongueIn praise of what another's said or sung,'Twere politic to do the like by these;But have you known a dog to praise his fleas?
You say, as I have often given tongueIn praise of what another's said or sung,'Twere politic to do the like by these;But have you known a dog to praise his fleas?
You say, as I have often given tongue
In praise of what another's said or sung,
'Twere politic to do the like by these;
But have you known a dog to praise his fleas?
'Put off that mask of burning goldWith emerald eyes.''O no, my dear, you make so boldTo find if hearts be wild and wise,And yet not cold.''I would but find what's there to find,Love or deceit.''It was the mask engaged your mind,And after set your heart to beat,Not what's behind.''But lest you are my enemy,I must enquire.''O no, my dear, let all that be,What matter, so there is but fireIn you, in me?'
'Put off that mask of burning goldWith emerald eyes.''O no, my dear, you make so boldTo find if hearts be wild and wise,And yet not cold.'
'Put off that mask of burning gold
With emerald eyes.'
'O no, my dear, you make so bold
To find if hearts be wild and wise,
And yet not cold.'
'I would but find what's there to find,Love or deceit.''It was the mask engaged your mind,And after set your heart to beat,Not what's behind.'
'I would but find what's there to find,
Love or deceit.'
'It was the mask engaged your mind,
And after set your heart to beat,
Not what's behind.'
'But lest you are my enemy,I must enquire.''O no, my dear, let all that be,What matter, so there is but fireIn you, in me?'
'But lest you are my enemy,
I must enquire.'
'O no, my dear, let all that be,
What matter, so there is but fire
In you, in me?'
How should the world be luckier if this house,Where passion and precision have been oneTime out of mind, became too ruinousTo breed the lidless eye that loves the sun?And the sweet laughing eagle thoughts that growWhere wings have memory of wings, and allThat comes of the best knit to the best? AlthoughMean roof-trees were the sturdier for its fall,How should their luck run high enough to reachThe gifts that govern men, and after theseTo gradual Time's last gift, a written speechWrought of high laughter, loveliness and ease?
How should the world be luckier if this house,Where passion and precision have been oneTime out of mind, became too ruinousTo breed the lidless eye that loves the sun?And the sweet laughing eagle thoughts that growWhere wings have memory of wings, and allThat comes of the best knit to the best? AlthoughMean roof-trees were the sturdier for its fall,How should their luck run high enough to reachThe gifts that govern men, and after theseTo gradual Time's last gift, a written speechWrought of high laughter, loveliness and ease?
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 Time's last gift, a written speech
Wrought of high laughter, loveliness and ease?
Dear Craoibhin Aoibhin, look into our case.When we are high and airy hundreds sayThat if we hold that flight they'll leave the place,While those same hundreds mock another dayBecause we have made our art of common things,So bitterly, you'd dream they longed to lookAll their lives through into some drift of wings.You've dandled them and fed them from the bookAnd know them to the bone; impart to us—We'll keep the secret—a new trick to please.Is there a bridle for this ProteusThat turns and changes like his draughty seas?Or is there none, most popular of men,But when they mock us that we mock again?
Dear Craoibhin Aoibhin, look into our case.When we are high and airy hundreds sayThat if we hold that flight they'll leave the place,While those same hundreds mock another dayBecause we have made our art of common things,So bitterly, you'd dream they longed to lookAll their lives through into some drift of wings.You've dandled them and fed them from the bookAnd know them to the bone; impart to us—We'll keep the secret—a new trick to please.Is there a bridle for this ProteusThat turns and changes like his draughty seas?Or is there none, most popular of men,But when they mock us that we mock again?
Dear Craoibhin Aoibhin, look into our case.
When we are high and airy hundreds say
That if we hold that flight they'll leave the place,
While those same hundreds mock another day
Because we have made our art of common things,
So bitterly, you'd dream they longed to look
All their lives through into some drift of wings.
You've dandled them and fed them from the book
And know them to the bone; impart to us—
We'll keep the secret—a new trick to please.
Is there a bridle for this Proteus
That turns and changes like his draughty seas?
Or is there none, most popular of men,
But when they mock us that we mock again?
These are the clouds about the fallen sun,The majesty that shuts his burning eye;The weak lay hand on what the strong has done,Till that be tumbled that was lifted highAnd discord follow upon unison,And all things at one common level lie.And therefore, friend, if your great race were runAnd these things came, so much the more therebyHave you made greatness your companion,Although it be for children that you sigh:These are the clouds about the fallen sun,The majesty that shuts his burning eye.
These are the clouds about the fallen sun,The majesty that shuts his burning eye;The weak lay hand on what the strong has done,Till that be tumbled that was lifted highAnd discord follow upon unison,And all things at one common level lie.And therefore, friend, if your great race were runAnd these things came, so much the more therebyHave you made greatness your companion,Although it be for children that you sigh:These are the clouds about the fallen sun,The majesty that shuts his burning eye.
These are the clouds about the fallen sun,
The majesty that shuts his burning eye;
The weak lay hand on what the strong has done,
Till that be tumbled that was lifted high
And discord follow upon unison,
And all things at one common level lie.
And therefore, friend, if your great race were run
And these things came, so much the more thereby
Have you made greatness your companion,
Although it be for children that you sigh:
These are the clouds about the fallen sun,
The majesty that shuts his burning eye.
There where the course is,Delight makes all of the one mind,The riders upon the galloping horses,The crowd that closes in behind:We, too, had good attendance once,Hearers and hearteners of the work;Aye, horsemen for companions,Before the merchant and the clerkBreathed on the world with timid breath.Sing on: sometime, and at some new moon,We'll learn that sleeping is not death,Hearing the whole earth change its tune,Its flesh being wild, and it againCrying aloud as the race course is,And we find hearteners among menThat ride upon horses.
There where the course is,Delight makes all of the one mind,The riders upon the galloping horses,The crowd that closes in behind:We, too, had good attendance once,Hearers and hearteners of the work;Aye, horsemen for companions,Before the merchant and the clerkBreathed on the world with timid breath.Sing on: sometime, and at some new moon,We'll learn that sleeping is not death,Hearing the whole earth change its tune,Its flesh being wild, and it againCrying aloud as the race course is,And we find hearteners among menThat ride upon horses.
There where the course is,
Delight makes all of the one mind,
The riders upon the galloping horses,
The crowd that closes in behind:
We, too, had good attendance once,
Hearers and hearteners of the work;
Aye, horsemen for companions,
Before the merchant and the clerk
Breathed on the world with timid breath.
Sing on: sometime, and at some new moon,
We'll learn that sleeping is not death,
Hearing the whole earth change its tune,
Its flesh being wild, and it again
Crying aloud as the race course is,
And we find hearteners among men
That ride upon horses.
Sickness brought me thisThought, in that scale of his:Why should I be dismayedThough flame had burned the wholeWorld, as it were a coal,Now I have seen it weighedAgainst a soul?
Sickness brought me thisThought, in that scale of his:Why should I be dismayedThough flame had burned the wholeWorld, as it were a coal,Now I have seen it weighedAgainst a soul?
Sickness brought me this
Thought, in that scale of his:
Why should I be dismayed
Though flame had burned the whole
World, as it were a coal,
Now I have seen it weighed
Against a soul?
All things can tempt me from this craft of verse:One time it was a woman's face, or worse—The seeming needs of my fool-driven land;Now nothing but comes readier to the handThan this accustomed toil. When I was young,I had not given a penny for a songDid not the poet sing it with such airsThat one believed he had a sword upstairs;Yet would be now, could I but have my wish,Colder and dumber and deafer than a fish.
All things can tempt me from this craft of verse:One time it was a woman's face, or worse—The seeming needs of my fool-driven land;Now nothing but comes readier to the handThan this accustomed toil. When I was young,I had not given a penny for a songDid not the poet sing it with such airsThat one believed he had a sword upstairs;Yet would be now, could I but have my wish,Colder and dumber and deafer than a fish.
All things can tempt me from this craft of verse:
One time it was a woman's face, or worse—
The seeming needs of my fool-driven land;
Now nothing but comes readier to the hand
Than this accustomed toil. When I was young,
I had not given a penny for a song
Did not the poet sing it with such airs
That one believed he had a sword upstairs;
Yet would be now, could I but have my wish,
Colder and dumber and deafer than a fish.
I whispered, 'I am too young,'And then, 'I am old enough;'Wherefore I threw a pennyTo find out if I might love.'Go and love, go and love, young man,If the lady be young and fair.'Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,I am looped in the loops of her hair.Oh, love is the crooked thing,There is nobody wise enoughTo find out all that is in it,For he would be thinking of loveTill the stars had run away,And the shadows eaten the moon.Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,One cannot begin it too soon.
I whispered, 'I am too young,'And then, 'I am old enough;'Wherefore I threw a pennyTo find out if I might love.'Go and love, go and love, young man,If the lady be young and fair.'Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,I am looped in the loops of her hair.
I whispered, 'I am too young,'
And then, 'I am old enough;'
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
'Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair.'
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.
Oh, love is the crooked thing,There is nobody wise enoughTo find out all that is in it,For he would be thinking of loveTill the stars had run away,And the shadows eaten the moon.Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,One cannot begin it too soon.
Oh, love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away,
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.
THE HOUR-GLASSNEW VERSION—1912
THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY
Wise Man.Bridget, his wife.Teigue, a fool.Angel.Children and Pupils.
Wise Man.Bridget, his wife.Teigue, a fool.Angel.Children and Pupils.
Wise Man.
Bridget, his wife.
Teigue, a fool.
Angel.
Children and Pupils.
Pupils come in and stand before the stage curtain, which is still closed. One pupil carries a book.
First Pupil
He said we might choose the subject for the lesson.
Second Pupil
There is none of us wise enough to do that.
Third Pupil
It would need a great deal of wisdom to know what it is we want to know.
Fourth Pupil
I will question him.
Fifth Pupil
You?
Fourth Pupil
Last night I dreamt that some one came and told me to question him. I was to say to him, 'You were wrong to say there is no God and no soul—maybe, if there is not much of either, there is yet some tatters, some tag on the wind—so to speak—some rag upon a bush, some bob-tail of a god.' I will argue with him,—nonsense though it be—according to my dream, and you will see how well I can argue, and what thoughts I have.
First Pupil
I'd as soon listen to dried peas in a bladder, as listen to your thoughts.
[Fool comes in.
Fool
Give me a penny.
Second Pupil
Let us choose a subject by chance. Here is his big book. Let us turn over the pages slowly. Let one of us put down his finger without looking. The passage his finger lights on will be the subject for the lesson.
Fool
Give me a penny.
Third Pupil
(Taking up book)How heavy it is.
Fourth Pupil
Spread it on Teigue's back, and then we can all stand round and see the choice.
Second Pupil
Make him spread out his arms.
Fourth Pupil
Down on your knees. Hunch up your back. Spread your arms out now, and look like a golden eagle in a church. Keep still, keep still.
Fool
Give me a penny.
Third Pupil
Is that the right cry for an eagle cock?
Second Pupil
I'll turn the pages—you close your eyes and put your finger down.
Third Pupil
That's it, and then he cannot blame us for the choice.
First Pupil
There, I have chosen. Fool, keep still—and if what's wise is strange and sounds like nonsense, we've made a good choice.
Fifth Pupil
The Master has come.
Fool
Will anybody give a penny to a fool?
[One of the pupils draws back the stage curtain showing the Master sitting at his desk. There is an hour-glass upon his desk or in a bracket on the wall. One pupil puts the book before him.
First Pupil
We have chosen the passage for the lesson, Master. 'There are twoliving countries, one visible and one invisible, and when it is summer there, it is winter here, and when it is November with us, it is lambing-time there.'
Wise Man
That passage, that passage! what mischief has there been since yesterday?
First Pupil
None, Master.
Wise Man
Oh yes, there has; some craziness has fallen from the wind, or risen from the graves of old men, and made you choose that subject.
Fourth Pupil
I knew that it was folly, but they would have it.
Third Pupil
Had we not better say we picked it by chance?
Second Pupil
No; he would say we were children still.
First Pupil
I have found a sentence under that one that says—as though to show it had a hidden meaning—a beggar wrote it upon the walls of Babylon.
Wise Man
Then find some beggar and ask him what it means, for I will have nothing to do with it.
Fourth Pupil
Come, Teigue, what is the old book's meaning when it says that there are sheep that drop their lambs in November?
Fool
To be sure—everybody knows, everybody in the world knows, when it is Spring with us, the trees are withering there, when it is Summer with us, the snow is falling there, and have I not myself heard the lambs that are there all bleating on a cold November day—to be sure, does not everybody with an intellect know that; and maybe when it's night with us, it is day with them, for many a time I have seen the roads lighted before me.
Wise Man
The beggar who wrote that on Babylon wall meant that there is a spiritual kingdom that cannot be seen or known till the faculties whereby we master the kingdom of this world wither away, like green things in winter. A monkish thought, themost mischievous thought that ever passed out of a man's mouth.
First Pupil
If he meant all that, I will take an oath that he was spindle-shanked, and cross-eyed, and had a lousy itching shoulder, and that his heart was crosser than his eyes, and that he wrote it out of malice.
Second Pupil
Let's come away and find a better subject.
Fourth Pupil
And maybe now you'll let me choose.
First Pupil
Come.
Wise Man