The Mountainy Singer Part 12

I will go with my father a-reaping To the brown field by the sea, And the geese and the crows and the children Will come flocking after me.

I will sing to the tanfaced reapers With the wren in the heat of the sun, And my father will sing the scythe-song That joys for the harvest done.

THE SHINING s.p.a.cES OF THE SOUTH

The shining s.p.a.ces of the south, The circle of the year, the sea, The blowing rose, the maiden's mouth, The love, the hate, the ecstasy, The golden wood, the shadowed stream, The dew, the light, the wind, the rain, The man's desire, the woman's dream, The bed embrace, the childing pain, The sound of music heard afar, The breathing gra.s.s, the broken sod, The sun, the moon, the twilight star-- Do all proclaim the mind of G.o.d.

Then why should I, who am but clay, Think otherwise, or answer nay?

LIKE A TUFT OF CEANABHAN

Like a tuft of _ceanabhan_ Blowing in the wind Is my slender Aine Ban-- White and soft and kind.

Kind her heart is, but her clann's Cold as clay or stone.

Would that I had herds and lands To take her for my own!

THE HERB-LEECH

I have gathered _luss_ At the wane of the moon, And supped its sap With a yewen spoon.

I have sat a spell By the carn of Medb, And smelt the mould Of the red queen's grave.

I have dreamed a dearth In the darkened sun, And felt the hand Of the Evil One.

I have fathomed war In the comet's tail, And heard the crying Of Gall and Gael.

I have seen the spume On the dead priest's lips, And the "holy fire"

On the spars of ships; And the shooting stars On Barthelmy's Night, Blanching the dark With ghostly light; And the corpse-candle Of the seer's dream, Bigger in girth Than a weaver's beam; And the shy hearth-fairies About the grate, Blowing the turves To a whiter heat.

All things on earth To me are known, For I have the gift Of the Murrain Stone!

WHO BUYS LAND

Who buys land buys many stones, Who buys flesh buys many bones; Who buys eggs buys many sh.e.l.ls, Who buys love buys nothing else.

Love is a burr upon the floor, Love is a thief behind the door; Who loves leman for her breath May quench his fire and cry for death!

Love is a bridle, love is a load, Love is a thorn upon the road; Love is the fly that flits its hour, Love is the shining venom-flower.

Love is a net, love is a snare, Love is a bubble blown with air; Love starts hot, and waning cold, Is withered in the grave's mould!

THE POET LOOSED A WINGeD SONG

The poet loosed a winged song Against the hulk of England's wrong.

Were poisoned words at his command, 'Twould not avail for Ireland.

The soldier lifted up a sword, And on the hills in battle poured His life-blood like an ebbing sea-- And still we pine for liberty.

The friar spoke his bitter hope, And danced upon the gallows rope.

Were he to dance that dance again A hundred times, 'twould be in vain.

Christ save us! only thou canst save!

The nation staggers to the grave.

Can genius, valour, faith be given, And win no recompense of heaven?

No, Christ! by Ireland's martyrs, no!

'Twas not for this we suffered so.

Die, die again on Calvary tree, If needs be, Christ, to set us free!

To set us free!

SIC TRANSIT

I lit my tallow An hour ago, And now it is burning Dark and low.

The glimmer lengthens And turns about, Sinks in the sconce-- Then flickers out!