Now, at the hour when ignorant mortalsDrowse in the shade of their whirling sphere,Heaven and Hell from invisible portalsBreathing comfort and ghastly fear,Voices I hear;I hear strange voices, flitting, calling,Wavering by on the dusky blast,—'Come, let us go, for the night is falling;Come, let us go, for the day is past!'Troops of joys are they, now departed?Winged hopes that no longer stay?Guardian spirits grown weary-hearted?Powers that have linger'd their latest day?What do they say?What do they sing? I hear them calling,Whispering, gathering, flying fast,—'Come, come, for the night is falling;Come, come, for the day is past!'Sing they to me?—'Thy taper's wasted;Mortal, thy sands of life run low;Thine hours like a flock of birds have hasted:Time is ending;—we go, we go.'Sing they so?Mystical voices, floating, calling;Dim farewells—the last, the last?Come, come away, the night is falling;'Come, come away, the day is past.'See, I am ready, Twilight voices!Child of the spirit-world am I;How should I fear you? my soul rejoices,O speak plainer! O draw nigh!Fain would I fly!Tell me your message, Ye who are callingOut of the dimness vague and vast;Lift me, take me,—the night is falling;Quick, let us go,—the day is past.
Now, at the hour when ignorant mortalsDrowse in the shade of their whirling sphere,Heaven and Hell from invisible portalsBreathing comfort and ghastly fear,Voices I hear;I hear strange voices, flitting, calling,Wavering by on the dusky blast,—'Come, let us go, for the night is falling;Come, let us go, for the day is past!'
Troops of joys are they, now departed?Winged hopes that no longer stay?Guardian spirits grown weary-hearted?Powers that have linger'd their latest day?What do they say?What do they sing? I hear them calling,Whispering, gathering, flying fast,—'Come, come, for the night is falling;Come, come, for the day is past!'
Sing they to me?—'Thy taper's wasted;Mortal, thy sands of life run low;Thine hours like a flock of birds have hasted:Time is ending;—we go, we go.'Sing they so?Mystical voices, floating, calling;Dim farewells—the last, the last?Come, come away, the night is falling;'Come, come away, the day is past.'
See, I am ready, Twilight voices!Child of the spirit-world am I;How should I fear you? my soul rejoices,O speak plainer! O draw nigh!Fain would I fly!Tell me your message, Ye who are callingOut of the dimness vague and vast;Lift me, take me,—the night is falling;Quick, let us go,—the day is past.
Within a budding grove,In April's ear sang every bird his best,But not a song to pleasure my unrest,Or touch the tears unwept of bitter love;Some spake, methought, with pity, some as if in jest.To every wordOf every birdI listen'd, and replied as it behove.Scream'd Chaffinch, 'Sweet, sweet, sweet!Pretty lovey, come and meet me here!''Chaffinch,' quoth I, 'be dumb awhile, in fearThy darling prove no better than a cheat,And never come, or fly when wintry days appear.'Yet from a twig,With voice so big,The little fowl his utterance did repeat.Then I, 'The man forlornHears Earth send up a foolish noise aloft.''And what'll he do? What'll he do?' scoff'dThe Blackbird, standing, in an ancient thorn,Then spread his sooty wings and flitted to the croftWith cackling laugh;Whom I, being halfEnraged, called after, giving back his scorn.Worse mock'd the Thrush, 'Die! die!Oh, could he do it? could he do it? Nay!Be quick! be quick! Here, here, here!' (went his lay.)'Take heed! take heed!' then 'Why? why? why? why? why?See-ee now! see-ee now!' (he drawl'd) 'Back! back! back! R-r-r-run away!'O Thrush, be still!Or at thy will,Seek some less sad interpreter than I.'Air, air! blue air and white!Whither I flee, whither, O whither, O whither I flee!'(Thus the Lark hurried, mounting from the lea)'Hills, countries, many waters glittering bright,Whither I see, whither I see! deeper, deeper, deeper, whither I see, see, see!''Gay Lark,' I said,'The song that's bredIn happy nest may well to heaven make flight.''There's something, something sad,I half remember'—piped a broken strain.Well sung, sweet Robin! Robin sung again.'Spring's opening cheerily, cheerily! be we glad!'Which moved, I wist not why, me melancholy mad,Till now, grown meek,With wetted cheek,Most comforting and gentle thoughts I had.
Within a budding grove,In April's ear sang every bird his best,But not a song to pleasure my unrest,Or touch the tears unwept of bitter love;Some spake, methought, with pity, some as if in jest.To every wordOf every birdI listen'd, and replied as it behove.
Scream'd Chaffinch, 'Sweet, sweet, sweet!Pretty lovey, come and meet me here!''Chaffinch,' quoth I, 'be dumb awhile, in fearThy darling prove no better than a cheat,And never come, or fly when wintry days appear.'Yet from a twig,With voice so big,The little fowl his utterance did repeat.
Then I, 'The man forlornHears Earth send up a foolish noise aloft.''And what'll he do? What'll he do?' scoff'dThe Blackbird, standing, in an ancient thorn,Then spread his sooty wings and flitted to the croftWith cackling laugh;Whom I, being halfEnraged, called after, giving back his scorn.
Worse mock'd the Thrush, 'Die! die!Oh, could he do it? could he do it? Nay!Be quick! be quick! Here, here, here!' (went his lay.)'Take heed! take heed!' then 'Why? why? why? why? why?See-ee now! see-ee now!' (he drawl'd) 'Back! back! back! R-r-r-run away!'O Thrush, be still!Or at thy will,Seek some less sad interpreter than I.
'Air, air! blue air and white!Whither I flee, whither, O whither, O whither I flee!'(Thus the Lark hurried, mounting from the lea)'Hills, countries, many waters glittering bright,Whither I see, whither I see! deeper, deeper, deeper, whither I see, see, see!''Gay Lark,' I said,'The song that's bredIn happy nest may well to heaven make flight.'
'There's something, something sad,I half remember'—piped a broken strain.Well sung, sweet Robin! Robin sung again.'Spring's opening cheerily, cheerily! be we glad!'Which moved, I wist not why, me melancholy mad,Till now, grown meek,With wetted cheek,Most comforting and gentle thoughts I had.
The Abbot of Innisfallenawoke ere dawn of day;Under the dewy green leaveswent he forth to pray.The lake around his islandlay smooth and dark and deep,And wrapt in a misty stillnessthe mountains were all asleep.Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormacwhen the dawn was dim and gray;The prayers of his holy officehe faithfully 'gan say.Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormacwhile the dawn was waxing red;And for his sins' forgivenessa solemn prayer he said:Low kneel'd that holy Abbotwhile the dawn was waxing clear;And he pray'd with loving-kindnessfor his convent-brethren dear.Low kneel'd that blessed Abbotwhile the dawn was waxing bright;He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland,he pray'd with all his might.Low kneel'd that good old Fatherwhile the sun began to dart;He pray'd a prayer for all men,he pray'd it from his heart.His blissful soul was in Heaven,tho' a breathing man was he;He was out of time's dominion,so far as the living may be.The Abbot of Innisfallenarose upon his feet;He heard a small bird singing,and O but it sung sweet!It sung upon a holly-bush,this little snow-white bird;A song so full of gladnesshe never before had heard.It sung upon a hazel,it sung upon a thorn;He had never heard such musicsince the hour that he was born.It sung upon a sycamore,it sung upon a briar;To follow the song and hearkenthis Abbot could never tire.Till at last he well bethought him;he might no longer stay;So he bless'd the little white singing-bird,and gladly went his way.But, when he came to his Abbey,he found a wondrous change;He saw no friendly faces there,for every face was strange.The strange men spoke unto him;and he heard from all and eachThe foreign tongue of the Sassenach,not wholesome Irish speech.Then the oldest monk came forward,in Irish tongue spake he:'Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress,and who hath given it to thee?''I wear the Augustine's dress,and Cormac is my name,The Abbot of this good Abbeyby grace of God I am.I went forth to pray, at the dawn of day;and when my prayers were said,I hearken'd awhile to a little bird,that sung above my head.'The monks to him made answer,'Two hundred years have gone o'er,Since our Abbot Cormac went through the gate,and never was heard of more.Matthias now is our Abbot,and twenty have pass'd away.The stranger is lord of Ireland;we live in an evil day.''Days will come and go,' he said,'and the world will pass away,In Heaven a day is a thousand years,a thousand years are a day.''Now give me absolution;for my time is come,' said he.And they gave him absolution,as speedily as might be.Then, close outside the window,the sweetest song they heardThat ever yet since the world beganwas utter'd by any bird.The monks look'd out and saw the bird,its feathers all white and clean;And there in a moment, beside it,another white bird was seen.Those two they sang together,waved their white wings, and fled;Flew aloft, and vanish'd;but the good old man was dead.They buried his blessed bodywhere lake and green-sward meet;A carven cross above his head,a holly-bush at his feet;Where spreads the beautiful waterto gay or cloudy skies,And the purple peaks of Killarneyfrom ancient woods arise.
The Abbot of Innisfallenawoke ere dawn of day;Under the dewy green leaveswent he forth to pray.The lake around his islandlay smooth and dark and deep,And wrapt in a misty stillnessthe mountains were all asleep.Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormacwhen the dawn was dim and gray;The prayers of his holy officehe faithfully 'gan say.Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormacwhile the dawn was waxing red;And for his sins' forgivenessa solemn prayer he said:Low kneel'd that holy Abbotwhile the dawn was waxing clear;And he pray'd with loving-kindnessfor his convent-brethren dear.Low kneel'd that blessed Abbotwhile the dawn was waxing bright;He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland,he pray'd with all his might.Low kneel'd that good old Fatherwhile the sun began to dart;He pray'd a prayer for all men,he pray'd it from his heart.His blissful soul was in Heaven,tho' a breathing man was he;He was out of time's dominion,so far as the living may be.
The Abbot of Innisfallenarose upon his feet;He heard a small bird singing,and O but it sung sweet!It sung upon a holly-bush,this little snow-white bird;A song so full of gladnesshe never before had heard.It sung upon a hazel,it sung upon a thorn;He had never heard such musicsince the hour that he was born.It sung upon a sycamore,it sung upon a briar;To follow the song and hearkenthis Abbot could never tire.Till at last he well bethought him;he might no longer stay;So he bless'd the little white singing-bird,and gladly went his way.
But, when he came to his Abbey,he found a wondrous change;He saw no friendly faces there,for every face was strange.The strange men spoke unto him;and he heard from all and eachThe foreign tongue of the Sassenach,not wholesome Irish speech.Then the oldest monk came forward,in Irish tongue spake he:'Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress,and who hath given it to thee?''I wear the Augustine's dress,and Cormac is my name,The Abbot of this good Abbeyby grace of God I am.I went forth to pray, at the dawn of day;and when my prayers were said,I hearken'd awhile to a little bird,that sung above my head.'The monks to him made answer,'Two hundred years have gone o'er,Since our Abbot Cormac went through the gate,and never was heard of more.Matthias now is our Abbot,and twenty have pass'd away.The stranger is lord of Ireland;we live in an evil day.''Days will come and go,' he said,'and the world will pass away,In Heaven a day is a thousand years,a thousand years are a day.''Now give me absolution;for my time is come,' said he.And they gave him absolution,as speedily as might be.Then, close outside the window,the sweetest song they heardThat ever yet since the world beganwas utter'd by any bird.The monks look'd out and saw the bird,its feathers all white and clean;And there in a moment, beside it,another white bird was seen.Those two they sang together,waved their white wings, and fled;Flew aloft, and vanish'd;but the good old man was dead.They buried his blessed bodywhere lake and green-sward meet;A carven cross above his head,a holly-bush at his feet;Where spreads the beautiful waterto gay or cloudy skies,And the purple peaks of Killarneyfrom ancient woods arise.
By the shore, a plot of groundClips a ruin'd chapel round,Buttress'd with a grassy mound;Where Day and Night and Day go by,And bring no touch of human sound.Washing of the lonely seas,Shaking of the guardian trees,Piping of the salted breeze;Day and Night and Day go byTo the endless tune of these.Or when, as winds and waters keepA hush more dead than any sleep,Still morns to stiller evenings creep,And Day and Night and Day go by;Here the silence is most deep.The empty ruins, lapsed againInto Nature's wide domain,Sow themselves with seed and grainAs Day and Night and Day go by;And hoard June's sun and April's rain.Here fresh funeral tears were shed;Now the graves are also dead;And suckers from the ash-tree spread,While Day and Night and Day go by;And stars move calmly overhead.
By the shore, a plot of groundClips a ruin'd chapel round,Buttress'd with a grassy mound;Where Day and Night and Day go by,And bring no touch of human sound.
Washing of the lonely seas,Shaking of the guardian trees,Piping of the salted breeze;Day and Night and Day go byTo the endless tune of these.
Or when, as winds and waters keepA hush more dead than any sleep,Still morns to stiller evenings creep,And Day and Night and Day go by;Here the silence is most deep.
The empty ruins, lapsed againInto Nature's wide domain,Sow themselves with seed and grainAs Day and Night and Day go by;And hoard June's sun and April's rain.
Here fresh funeral tears were shed;Now the graves are also dead;And suckers from the ash-tree spread,While Day and Night and Day go by;And stars move calmly overhead.
Here end sixteen poems, written by William Allingham, and selected for re-printing by William Butler Yeats. Printed upon paper made in Ireland, and published by Elizabeth Corbet Yeats at the Dun Emer Press, in the house of Evelyn Gleeson at Dundrum, in the county of Dublin, Ireland, finished on the fifteenth day of September, in the year 1905.