A Book of Irish Verse Part 24

Rest for the Lamb of G.o.d Up on the hill-top green, Only a cross of shame Two stark crosses between.

All in the April evening, April airs were abroad; I saw the sheep with their lambs, And thought on the Lamb of G.o.d.

_Katharine Tynan Hinkson_

THE GARDENER SAGE

Here in the garden-bed, Hoeing the celery, Wonders the Lord has made Pa.s.s ever before me.

I saw the young birds build, And swallows come and go, And summer grow and gild, And winter die in snow.

Many a thing I note, And store it in my mind; For all my ragged coat, That scarce will stop the wind.

I light my pipe and draw, And, leaning on my spade, I marvel with much awe O'er all the Lord hath made.

Now, here's a curious thing: Upon the first of March, The crow goes house-building, In the elms and in the larch.

And be it shine or snow, Though many winds carouse, That day the artful crow Begins to build his house.

But then--the wonder's big!-- _If Sunday fall that day_ _Nor straw, nor scraw, nor twig, Till Monday will he lay._ His black wings to his side, He'll drone upon his perch, Subdued and holy-eyed, As though he were at church.

The crow's a gentleman Not greatly to my mind, He'll steal what seeds he can, And all you hide he'll find.

Yet though he's bully and sneak, To small birds bird of prey-- He counts the days of the week, And keeps the Sabbath day.

_Katharine Tynan Hinkson_

THE DARK MAN

Rose o' the world, she came to my bed And changed the dreams of my heart and head: For joy of mine she left grief of hers And garlanded me with a crown of furze.

Rose o' the world, they go out and in, And watch me dream and my mother spin: And they pity the tears on my sleeping face While my soul's away in a fairy place.

Rose o' the world, they have words galore, And wide's the swing of my mother's door: But soft they speak of my darkened eyes, But what do they know, who are all so wise?

Rose o' the world, the pain you give Is worth all days that a man may live: Worth all shy prayers that the colleens say On the night that darkens the wedding day.

Rose o' the world, what man would wed When he might dream of your face instead?

Might go to his grave with the blessed pain Of hungering after your face again?

Rose o' the world, they may talk their fill, For dreams are good, and my life stands still While their lives' red ashes the gossips stir, But my fiddle knows: and I talk to her.

_Nora Hopper_

THE FAIRY FIDDLER

'Tis I go fiddling, fiddling, By weedy ways forlorn: I make the blackbird's music Ere in his breast 'tis born: The sleeping larks I waken Twixt the midnight and the morn.

No man alive has seen me, But women hear me play Sometimes at door or window, Fiddling the souls away,-- The child's soul and the colleen's Out of the covering clay.

None of my fairy kinsmen Make music with me now: Alone the raths I wander Or ride the whitethorn bough; But the wild swans they know me, And the horse that draws the plough.

_Nora Hopper_

OUR THRONES DECAY

I said, my pleasure shall not move; It is not fixed in things apart: Seeking not love--but yet to love-- I put my trust in mine own heart.

I knew the fountain of the deep Wells up with living joy, unfed; Such joys the lonely heart may keep, And love grow rich with love unwed.

Still flows the ancient fount sublime; But, ah, for my heart shed tears, shed tears; Not it, but love, has scorn of time; It turns to dust beneath the years.

_A.E._

IMMORTALITY

We must pa.s.s like smoke or live within the spirit's fire; For we can no more than smoke unto the flame return If our thought has changed to dream, our will unto desire, As smoke we vanish though the fire may burn.

Lights of infinite pity star the grey dusk of our days: Surely here is soul: with it we have eternal breath: In the fire of love we live, or pa.s.s by many ways, By unnumbered ways of dream to death.

_A.E._

THE GREAT BREATH

Its edges foamed with amethyst and rose, Withers once more the old blue flower of day: There where the ether like a diamond glows Its petals fade away.

A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air; Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows; The great deep thrills for through it everywhere The breath of Beauty blows.