Poems

A DREAM OF A BLESSED SPIRIT

All the heavy days are over;Leave the body's coloured prideUnderneath the grass and clover,With the feet laid side by side.One with her are mirth and duty,Bear the gold embroidered dress,For she needs not her sad beauty,To the scented oaken press.Hers the kiss of Mother Mary,The long hair is on her face;Still she goes with footsteps wary,Full of earth's old timid grace.With white feet of angels sevenHer white feet go glimmeringAnd above the deep of heaven,Flame on flame and wing on wing.

WHO GOES WITH FERGUS?

Who will go drive with Fergus now,And pierce the deep wood's woven shade,And dance upon the level shore?Young man, lift up your russet brow,And lift your tender eyelids, maid,And brood on hopes and fears no more.And no more turn aside and broodUpon Love's bitter mystery;For Fergus rules the brazen cars,And rules the shadows of the wood,And the white breast of the dim seaAnd all dishevelled wandering stars.

THE MAN WHO DREAMED OF FAERYLAND

He stood among a crowd at Drumahair;His heart hung all upon a silken dress,And he had known at last some tenderness,Before earth made of him her sleepy care;But when a man poured fish into a pile,It seemed they raised their little silver heads,And sang how day a Druid twilight shedsUpon a dim, green, well-beloved isle,Where people love beside star-laden seas;How Time may never mar their faery vowsUnder the woven roofs of quicken boughs:The singing shook him out of his new ease.He wandered by the sands of Lisadill;His mind ran all on money cares and fears,And he had known at last some prudent yearsBefore they heaped his grave under the hill;But while he passed before a plashy place,A lug-worm with its gray and muddy mouthSang how somewhere to north or west or southThere dwelt a gay, exulting, gentle race;And how beneath those three times blessed skiesA Danaan fruitage makes a shower of moons,And as it falls awakens leafy tunes:And at that singing he was no more wise.He mused beside the well of Scanavin,He mused upon his mockers: without failHis sudden vengeance were a country tale,Now that deep earth has drunk his body in;But one small knot-grass growing by the poolTold where, ah, little, all-unneeded voice!Old Silence bids a lonely folk rejoice,And chaplet their calm brows with leafage cool,And how, when fades the sea-strewn rose of day,A gentle feeling wraps them like a fleece,And all their trouble dies into its peace:The tale drove his fine angry mood away.He slept under the hill of Lugnagall;And might have known at last unhaunted sleepUnder that cold and vapour-turbaned steep,Now that old earth had taken man and all:Were not the worms that spired about his bonesA-telling with their low and reedy cry,Of how God leans His hands out of the sky,To bless that isle with honey in His tones;That none may feel the power of squall and waveAnd no one any leaf-crowned dancer missUntil He burn up Nature with a kiss:The man has found no comfort in the grave.

THE DEDICATION TO A BOOK OF STORIES SELECTED FROM THE IRISH NOVELISTS

There was a green branch hung with many a bellWhen her own people ruled in wave-worn Eire;And from its murmuring greenness, calm of faery,A Druid kindness, on all hearers fell.It charmed away the merchant from his guile,And turned the farmer's memory from his cattle,And hushed in sleep the roaring ranks of battle,For all who heard it dreamed a little while.Ah, Exiles wandering over many seas,Spinning at all times Eire's good to-morrow!Ah, worldwide Nation, always growing Sorrow!I also bear a bell branch full of ease.I tore it from green boughs winds tossed and hurled,Green boughs of tossing always, weary, weary!I tore it from the green boughs of old Eire,The willow of the many-sorrowed world.Ah, Exiles, wandering over many lands!My bell branch murmurs: the gay bells bring laughter,Leaping to shake a cobweb from the rafter;The sad bells bow the forehead on the hands.A honeyed ringing: under the new skiesThey bring you memories of old village faces,Cabins gone now, old well-sides, old dear places;And men who loved the cause that never dies.

THE LAMENTATION OF THE OLD PENSIONER

I had a chair at every hearth,When no one turned to see,With "Look at that old fellow there,"And who may he be?"And therefore do I wander now,And the fret lies on me.The road-side trees keep murmuringAh, wherefore murmur ye,As in the old days long gone by,Green oak and poplar tree?The well-known faces are all goneAnd the fret lies on me.

THE BALLAD OF FATHER GILLIGAN

The old priest Peter GilliganWas weary night and day;For half his flock were in their beds,Or under green sods lay.Once, while he nodded on a chair,At the moth-hour of eve,Another poor man sent for him,And he began to grieve."I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace,"For people die and die";And after cried he, "God forgive!"My body spake, not I!"He knelt, and leaning on the chairHe prayed and fell asleep;And the moth-hour went from the fields,And stars began to peep.They slowly into millions grew,And leaves shook in the wind;And God covered the world with shade,And whispered to mankind.Upon the time of sparrow chirpWhen the moths came once more,The old priest Peter GilliganStood upright on the floor."Mavrone, mavrone! the man has died,"While I slept on the chair";He roused his horse out of its sleep,And rode with little care.He rode now as he never rode,By rocky lane and fen;The sick man's wife opened the door:"Father! you come again!""And is the poor man dead?" he cried,"He died an hour ago,"The old priest Peter GilliganIn grief swayed to and fro."When you were gone, he turned and died"As merry as a bird."The old priest Peter GilliganHe knelt him at that word."He who hath made the night of stars"For souls, who tire and bleed,"Sent one of His great angels down"To help me in my need."He who is wrapped in purple robes,"With planets in His care,"Had pity on the least of things"Asleep upon a chair."

THE TWO TREES

Beloved, gaze in thine own heart,The holy tree is growing there;From joy the holy branches start,And all the trembling flowers they bear.The changing colours of its fruitHave dowered the stars with merry light;The surety of its hidden rootHas planted quiet in the night;The shaking of its leafy headHas given the waves their melody,And made my lips and music wed,Murmuring a wizard song for thee.There, through bewildered branches, goWinged Loves borne on in gentle strife,Tossing and tossing to and froThe flaming circle of our life.When looking on their shaken hair,And dreaming how they dance and dart,Thine eyes grow full of tender care:Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.Gaze no more in the bitter glassThe demons, with their subtle guile,Lift up before us when they pass,Or only gaze a little while;For there a fatal image grows,With broken boughs, and blackened leaves,And roots half hidden under snowsDriven by a storm that ever grieves.For all things turn to barrennessIn the dim glass the demons hold,The glass of outer weariness,Made when God slept in times of old.There, through the broken branches, goThe ravens of unresting thought;Peering and flying to and froTo see men's souls bartered and bought.When they are heard upon the wind,And when they shake their wings; alas!Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:Gaze no more in the bitter glass.

TO IRELAND IN THE COMING TIMES

Know, that I would accounted beTrue brother of that company,Who sang to sweeten Ireland's wrong,Ballad and story, rann and song;Nor be I any less of them,Because the red-rose-bordered hemOf her, whose history beganBefore God made the angelic clan,Trails all about the written page;For in the world's first blossoming ageThe light fall of her flying feetMade Ireland's heart begin to beat;And still the starry candles flareTo help her light foot here and there;And still the thoughts of Ireland broodUpon her holy quietude.Nor may I less be counted oneWith Davis, Mangan, Ferguson,Because to him, who ponders well,My rhymes more than their rhyming tellOf the dim wisdoms old and deep,That God gives unto man in sleep.For the elemental beings goAbout my table to and fro.In flood and fire and clay and wind,They huddle from man's pondering mind;Yet he who treads in austere waysMay surely meet their ancient gaze.Man ever journeys on with themAfter the red-rose-bordered hem.Ah, faeries, dancing under the moon,A Druid land, a Druid tune!While still I may, I write for youThe love I lived, the dream I knew.From our birthday, until we die,Is but the winking of an eye;And we, our singing and our love,The mariners of night above,And all the wizard things that goAbout my table to and fro.Are passing on to where may be,In truth's consuming ecstasyNo place for love and dream at all;For God goes by with white foot-fall.I cast my heart into my rhymes,That you, in the dim coming times,May know how my heart went with themAfter the red-rose-bordered hem.

THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE

O Rose, thou art sick.

William Blake.TO FLORENCE FARR

Maurteen Bruin

Bridget Bruin

Shawn Bruin

Mary Bruin

Father Hart

A Faery Child

The Scene is laid in the Barony of Kilmacowen, in the County of Sligo, and at a remote time.

Scene. —A room with a hearth on the floor in the middle of a deep alcove to the Right. There are benches in the alcove and a table; and a crucifix on the wall. The alcove is full of a glow of light from the fire. There is an open door facing the audience to the Left, and to the left of this a bench. Through the door one can see the forest. It is night, but the moon or a late sunset glimmers through the trees and carries the eye far off into a vague, mysterious world. MAURTEEN BRUIN, SHAWN BRUIN, and BRIDGET BRUIN sit in the alcove at the table or about the fire. They are dressed in the costume of some remote time, and near them sits an old priest, FATHER HART. He may be dressed as a friar. There is food and drink upon the table. MARY BRUIN stands by the door reading a book. If she looks up she can see through the door into the wood.

BRIDGETBecause I bid her clean the pots for supperShe took that old book down out of the thatch;She has been doubled over it ever since.We should be deafened by her groans and moansHad she to work as some do, Father Hart;Get up at dawn like me and mend and scourOr ride abroad in the boisterous night like you,The pyx and blessed bread under your arm.SHAWNMother, you are too cross.BRIDGETYou've married her,And fear to vex her and so take her part.MAURTEEN (to FATHER HART)It is but right that youth should side with youth;She quarrels with my wife a bit at times,And is too deep just now in the old book!But do not blame her greatly; she will growAs quiet as a puff-ball in a treeWhen but the moons of marriage dawn and dieFor half a score of times.FATHER HARTTheir hearts are wild,As be the hearts of birds, till children come.BRIDGETShe would not mind the kettle, milk the cow,Or even lay the knives and spread the cloth.SHAWNMother, if only —MAURTEENShawn, this is half empty;Go, bring up the best bottle that we have.FATHER HARTI never saw her read a book before,What can it be?MAURTEEN (to SHAWN)What are you waiting for?You must not shake it when you draw the cork;It's precious wine, so take your time about it.

(To Priest.) (SHAWN goes.)

There was a Spaniard wrecked at Ocris Head,When I was young, and I have still some bottles.He cannot bear to hear her blamed; the bookHas lain up in the thatch these fifty years;My father told me my grandfather wrote it,And killed a heifer for the binding of it —But supper's spread, and we can talk and eatIt was little good he got out of the book,Because it filled his house with rambling fiddlers,And rambling ballad-makers and the like.The griddle-bread is there in front of you.Colleen, what is the wonder in that book,That you must leave the bread to cool? Had IOr had my father read or written booksThere were no stocking stuffed with yellow guineasTo come when I am dead to Shawn and you.FATHER HARTYou should not fill your head with foolish dreams.What are you reading?MARYHow a Princess Edane,A daughter of a King of Ireland, heardA voice singing on a May Eve like this,And followed half awake and half asleep,Until she came into the Land of Faery,Where nobody gets old and godly and grave,Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise,Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.And she is still there, busied with a danceDeep in the dewy shadow of a wood,Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top.MAURTEENPersuade the colleen to put down the book;My grandfather would mutter just such things,And he was no judge of a dog or a horse,And any idle boy could blarney him;Just speak your mind.FATHER HARTPut it away, my colleen;God spreads the heavens above us like great wingsAnd gives a little round of deeds and days,And then come the wrecked angels and set snares,And bait them with light hopes and heavy dreams,Until the heart is puffed with pride and goesHalf shuddering and half joyous from God's peace;And it was some wrecked angel, blind with tears,Who flattered Edane's heart with merry words.My colleen, I have seen some other girlsRestless and ill at ease, but years went byAnd they grew like their neighbours and were gladIn minding children, working at the churn,And gossiping of weddings and of wakes;For life moves out of a red flare of dreamsInto a common light of common hours,Until old age bring the red flare again.MAURTEENThat's true – but she's too young to know it's true.BRIDGETShe's old enough to know that it is wrongTo mope and idle.MAURTEENI've little blame for her;She's dull when my big son is in the fields,And that and maybe this good woman's tongueHave driven her to hide among her dreamsLike children from the dark under the bed-clothes.BRIDGETShe'd never do a turn if I were silent.MAURTEENAnd maybe it is natural upon May EveTo dream of the good people. But tell me, girl,If you've the branch of blessed quicken woodThat women hang upon the post of the doorThat they may send good luck into the house?Remember they may steal new-married bridesAfter the fall of twilight on May Eve,Or what old women mutter at the fireIs but a pack of lies.FATHER HARTIt may be truth.We do not know the limit of those powersGod has permitted to the evil spiritsFor some mysterious end. You have done right (to MARY);It's well to keep old innocent customs up.

(MARY BRUIN has taken a bough of quicken wood from a seat and hung it on a nail in the door-post. A girl child strangely dressed, perhaps in faery green, comes out of the wood and takes it away.)

MARYI had no sooner hung it on the nailBefore a child ran up out of the wind;She has caught it in her hand and fondled it;Her face is pale as water before dawn.FATHER HARTWhose child can this be?MAURTEENNo one's child at all.She often dreams that some one has gone by,When there was nothing but a puff of wind.MARYThey have taken away the blessed quicken wood,They will not bring good luck into the house;Yet I am glad that I was courteous to them,For are not they, likewise, children of God?FATHER HARTColleen, they are the children of the fiend,And they have power until the end of Time,When God shall fight with them a great pitched battleAnd hack them into pieces.MARYHe will smile,Father, perhaps, and open His great door.FATHER HARTDid but the lawless angels see that doorThey would fall, slain by everlasting peace;And when such angels knock upon our doors,Who goes with them must drive through the same storm.

(A thin old arm comes round the door-post and knocks and beckons. It is clearly seen in the silvery light. MARY BRUIN goes to door and stands in it for a moment. MAURTEEN BRUIN is busy filling FATHER HART'S plate. BRIDGET BRUIN stirs the fire.)

MARY (coming to table)There's somebody out there that beckoned meAnd raised her hand as though it held a cup,And she was drinking from it, so it may beThat she is thirsty.

(She takes milk from the table and carries it to the door.)

FATHER HARTThat will be the childThat you would have it was no child at all.BRIDGETAnd maybe, Father, what he said was true;For there is not another night in the yearSo wicked as to-night.MAURTEENNothing can harm usWhile the good Father's underneath our roof.MARYA little queer old woman dressed in green.BRIDGETThe good people beg for milk and fireUpon May Eve – woe to the house that gives,For they have power upon it for a year.MAURTEENHush, woman, hush!BRIDGETShe's given milk away.I knew she would bring evil on the house.MAURTEENWho was it?MARYBoth the tongue and face were strange.MAURTEENSome strangers came last week to Clover Hill;She must be one of them.BRIDGETI am afraid.FATHER HARTThe Cross will keep all evil from the houseWhile it hangs there.MAURTEENCome, sit beside me, colleen,And put away your dreams of discontent,For I would have you light up my last days,Like the good glow of the turf; and when I dieYou'll be the wealthiest hereabout, for, colleen,I have a stocking full of yellow guineasHidden away where nobody can find it.BRIDGETYou are the fool of every pretty face,And I must spare and pinch that my son's wifeMay have all kinds of ribbons for her head.MAURTEENDo not be cross; she is a right good girl!The butter is by your elbow, Father Hart.My colleen, have not Fate and Time and ChangeDone well for me and for old Bridget there?We have a hundred acres of good land,And sit beside each other at the fire.I have this reverend Father for my friend,I look upon your face and my son's face —We've put his plate by yours – and here he comes,And brings with him the only thing we have lacked,Abundance of good wine. (SHAWN comes in.) Stir up the fire,And put new turf upon it till it blaze;To watch the turf-smoke coiling from the fire,And feel content and wisdom in your heart,This is the best of life; when we are youngWe long to tread a way none trod before,But find the excellent old way through love,And through the care of children, to the hourFor bidding Fate and Time and Change goodbye.

(MARY takes a sod of turf from the fire and goes out through the door. SHAWN follows her and meets her coming in.)

SHAWNWhat is it draws you to the chill o' the wood?There is a light among the stems of the treesThat makes one shiver.MARYA little queer old manMade me a sign to show he wanted fireTo light his pipe.BRIDGETYou've given milk and fireUpon the unluckiest night of the year and brought,For all you know, evil upon the house.Before you married you were idle and fineAnd went about with ribbons on your head;And now – no, Father, I will speak my mind —She is not a fitting wife for any man —SHAWNBe quiet, Mother!MAURTEENYou are much too cross.MARYWhat do I care if I have given this house,Where I must hear all day a bitter tongue,Into the power of faeries!BRIDGETYou know wellHow calling the good people by that name,Or talking of them over much at all,May bring all kinds of evil on the house.MARYCome, faeries, take me out of this dull house!Let me have all the freedom I have lost;Work when I will and idle when I will!Faeries, come take me out of this dull world,For I would ride with you upon the wind.Run on the top of the dishevelled tide,And dance upon the mountains like a flame.FATHER HARTYou cannot know the meaning of your words.MARYFather, I am right weary of four tongues:A tongue that is too crafty and too wise,A tongue that is too godly and too grave,A tongue that is more bitter than the tide,And a kind tongue too full of drowsy love,Of drowsy love and my captivity.

(SHAWN BRUIN leads her to a seat at the left of the door.)

SHAWNDo not blame me; I often lie awakeThinking that all things trouble your bright head.How beautiful it is – your broad pale foreheadUnder a cloudy blossoming of hair!Sit down beside me here – these are too old,And have forgotten they were ever young.MARYO, you are the great door-post of this house,And I the branch of blessed quicken wood,And if I could I'd hang upon the post,Till I had brought good luck into the house.

(She would put her arms about him, but looks shyly at the priest and lets her arms fall.)

FATHER HARTMy daughter, take his hand – by love aloneGod binds us to Himself and to the hearth,That shuts us from the waste beyond His peace,From maddening freedom and bewildering light.SHAWNWould that the world were mine to give it you,And not its quiet hearths alone, but evenAll that bewilderment of light and freedom,If you would have it.MARYI would take the worldAnd break it into pieces in my handsTo see you smile watching it crumble away.SHAWNThen I would mould a world of fire and dew,With no one bitter, grave or over wise,And nothing marred or old to do you wrong,And crowd the enraptured quiet of the skyWith candles burning to your lonely face.MARYYour looks are all the candles that I need.SHAWNOnce a fly dancing in a beam of the sun,Or the light wind blowing out of the dawn,Could fill your heart with dreams none other knew,But now the indissoluble sacramentHas mixed your heart that was most proud and coldWith my warm heart for ever; the sun and moonMust fade and heaven be rolled up like a scroll;But your white spirit still walk by my spirit.

(A Voice singing in the wood.)

MAURTEENThere's some one singing. Why, it's but a child.It sang, "The lonely of heart is withered away."A strange song for a child, but she sings sweetly.Listen, listen!

(Goes to door.)

MARYO, cling close to me,Because I have said wicked things to-night.THE VOICEThe wind blows out of the gates of the day,The wind blows over the lonely of heart,And the lonely of heart is withered away.While the faeries dance in a place apart,Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring,Tossing their milk-white arms in the air;For they hear the wind laugh and murmur and singOf a land where even the old are fair,And even the wise are merry of tongue;But I heard a reed of Coolaney say,"When the wind has laughed and murmured and sungThe lonely of heart is withered away!"MAURTEENBeing happy, I would have all others happy,So I will bring her in out of the cold.

(He brings in the faery child.)

THE CHILDI tire of winds and waters and pale lights.MAURTEENAnd that's no wonder, for when night has fallenThe wood's a cold and a bewildering place,But you are welcome here.THE CHILDI am welcome here.For when I tire of this warm little houseThere is one here that must away, away.MAURTEENO, listen to her dreamy and strange talk.Are you not cold?THE CHILDI will crouch down beside you,For I have run a long, long way this night.BRIDGETYou have a comely shape.MAURTEENYour hair is wet.BRIDGETI'll warm your chilly feet.MAURTEENYou have come indeedA long, long way – for I have never seenYour pretty face – and must be tired and hungry,Here is some bread and wine.THE CHILDThe wine is bitter.Old mother, have you no sweet food for me?BRIDGETI have some honey.

(She goes into the next room.)

MAURTEENYou have coaxing ways,The mother was quite cross before you came.

(BRIDGET returns with the honey and fills a porringer with milk.)

BRIDGETShe is the child of gentle people; lookAt her white hands and at her pretty dress.I've brought you some new milk, but wait a whileAnd I will put it to the fire to warm,For things well fitted for poor folk like usWould never please a high-born child like you.THE CHILDFrom dawn, when you must blow the fire ablaze,You work your fingers to the bone, old mother.The young may lie in bed and dream and hope,But you must work your fingers to the boneBecause your heart is old.BRIDGETThe young are idle.THE CHILDYour memories have made you wise, old father;The young must sigh through many a dream and hope,But you are wise because your heart is old.

(BRIDGET gives her more bread and honey.)

MAURTEENO, who would think to find so young a girlLoving old age and wisdom?THE CHILDNo more, mother.MAURTEENWhat a small bite! The milk is ready now. (Hands it to her.) What a small sip!THE CHILDPut on my shoes, old mother.Now I would like to dance now I have eaten,The reeds are dancing by Coolaney lake,And I would like to dance until the reedsAnd the white waves have danced themselves asleep.

(BRIDGET puts on the shoes, and the CHILD is about to dance, but suddenly sees the crucifix and shrieks and covers her eyes.)

What is that ugly thing on the black cross?FATHER HARTYou cannot know how naughty your words are!That is our Blessed Lord.THE CHILDHide it away!BRIDGETI have begun to be afraid again.THE CHILDHide it away!MAURTEENThat would be wickedness!BRIDGETThat would be sacrilege!THE CHILDThe tortured thing!Hide it away!MAURTEENHer parents are to blame.FATHER HARTThat is the image of the Son of God.THE CHILD (caressing him)Hide it away, hide it away!MAURTEENNo, no.FATHER HARTBecause you are so young and like a bird,That must take fright at every stir of the leaves,I will go take it down.THE CHILDHide it away!And cover it out of sight and out of mind!

(FATHER HART takes crucifix from wall and carries it towards inner room.)