Poetry

turn to our rest. S. Patric

On the flaming stones, without refuge, the limbs of the Fenians are tost;
None war on the masters of Hell, who could break up the world in their rage;
Kneel, Usheen, wear out the flags and pray for your soul that is lost
Through the demon love of its youth and its godless and passionate age.

Usheen

Ah, me! to be shaken with coughing and broken with old age and pain,
Without laughter, a show unto children, alone with remembrance and fear;
All emptied of purple hours as a beggar’s cloak in the rain,
As a hay-cock out on the flood, or a wolf sucked under a weir.

It were sad to gaze on the blessed and no man I loved of old there;
I throw down the chain of small stones! when life in my body has ceased,
I will go to Caolte, and Conan, and Bran, Sgeolan, Lomair,
And dwell in the house of the Fenians, be they in flames or at feast.

The Danaan Quicken Tree2

Beloved, hear my bitter tale!⁠—
Now making busy with the oar,
Now flinging loose the slanting sail,
I hurried from the woody shore,
And plucked small fruits on Innisfree.
(Ah, mournful Danaan quicken tree!)

A murmuring faery multitude,
When flying to the heart of light
From playing hurley in the wood
With creatures of our heavy night,
A berry threw for me⁠—or thee.
(Ah, mournful Danaan quicken tree!)

And thereon grew a tender root,
And thereon grew a tender stem,
And thereon grew the ruddy fruit
That are a poison to all men
And meat to the Aslauga Shee.
(Ah, mournful Danaan quicken tree!)

If when the battle is half won,
I fling away my sword, blood dim,
Or leave some service all undone,
Beloved, blame the Danaan whim,
And blame the snare they set for me.
(Ah, mournful Danaan quicken tree!)

Cast out all hope, cast out all fear,
And taste with me the faeries’ meat,
For while I blamed them I could hear
Dark Joan call the berries sweet,
Where Niam heads the revelry.
(Ah, mournful Danaan quicken tree!)

Wisdom and Dreams

I pray that I ever be weaving
An intellectual tune,
But weaving it out of threads
From the distaff of the moon.

Wisdom and dreams are one,
For dreams are the flowers ablow,
And Wisdom the fruit of the garden:
God planted him long ago.

Time and the Witch Vivien

A marble-flagged, pillared room. Magical instruments in one corner. A fountain in the centre.

Vivien	Looking down into the fountain. Where moves there any beautiful as I, Save, with the little golden greedy carp, Gold unto gold, a gleam in its long hair, My image yonder? Spreading her hand over the water. Ah, my beautiful, What roseate fingers! Turning away. No; nor is there one Of equal power in spells and secret rites. The proudest or most coy of spirit things, Hide where he will, in wave or wrinkled moon, Obeys. Some fierce magician flies or walks Beyond the gateway⁠—by the sentries now⁠— Close and more close⁠—I feel him in my heart⁠— Some great one. No; I hear the wavering steps Without there of a little, light old man; I dreamt some great one. Catching sight of her image, and spreading her hand over the water. Ah, my beautiful, What roseate fingers!
	Enter Time as an old pedlar, with a scythe, an hour-glass, and a black bag.
	Ha, ha! ha, ha, ha! The wrinkled squanderer of human wealth. Come here. Be seated now; I’d buy of you. Come, father.
Time	Lady, I nor rest nor sit.
Vivien	Well then, to business; what is in your bag?
Time	Putting the bag and hour-glass on the table and resting on his scythe. Grey hairs and crutches, crutches and grey hairs, Mansions of memories and mellow thoughts Where dwell the minds of old men having peace, And⁠—
Vivien	No; I’ll none of these, old Father Wrinkles.
Time	Some day you’ll buy them, maybe.
Vivien	Never!
Time	Laughing. Never?
Vivien	Why do you laugh?
Time	I laugh the last always.
	She lays the hour-glass on one side. Time rights it again.
Vivien	I do not need your scythe. May that bring peace To those your “mellow” wares have wearied out. I’d buy your glass.
Time	My glass I will not sell. Without my glass I’d be a sorry clown.
Vivien	Yet whiter beard have you than Merlin had.
Time	No taste have I for slumber ’neath an oak.
Vivien	When were you born?
Time	Before your grandam Eve.
Vivien	Oh, I am weary of that foolish tale. They say you are a gambler and a player At chances and at moments with mankind. I’ll play you for your old hour-glass. Pointing to the instruments of magic. You see I keep such things about me; they are food For antiquarian meditation.
	Brings dice.
Time	Ay, We throw three times.
Vivien	Three-six.
Time	Four-six.
Vivien	Five-six. Ha, Time!
Time	Double sixes!
Vivien	I lose! They’re loaded dice. Time always plays With loaded dice. Another chance! Come, father; Come to the chess, for young girls’ wits are better Than old men’s any day, as Merlin found.
	Places the chess-board on her knees.
	The passing of those little grains is snow Upon my soul, old Time.
	She lays the hour-glass on its side.
Vivien	No; thus it stands. Rights it again. For other stakes we play. You lost the glass.
Vivien	Then give me triumph in my many plots.
Time	Defeat is death.
Vivien	Should my plots fail I’d die.
	They play.
	Thus play we first with pawns, poor things and weak; And then the great ones come, and last the king. So men in life and I in magic play; First dreams, and goblins, and the lesser sprites, And now with Father Time I’m face to face.
	They play.
	I trap you.
Time	Check.
Vivien	I do miscalculate. I am dull to-day, or you were now all lost. Chance, and not skill, has favoured you, old father!
	She plays.
Vivien	Check.
Vivien	Ah! how bright your eyes. How swift your moves. How still it is! I hear the carp go splash, And now and then a bubble rise. I hear A bird walk on the doorstep.
	She plays.
Time	Check once more.
Vivien	I