Lettice D'Oyly Walters.

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mission of the Talbot Press, Ltd., Dublin.




THERE are veils that lift, there are bars that fall,
There are lights that beckon, and winds that call-
Good-bye !

There are hurrying feet, and we dare not wait,
For the hour is on us the hour of Fate,
The circling hour of the flaming gate
Good-bye good-bye good-bye !

Fair, fair they shine through the burning zone
The rainbow gleams of a world unknown ;

Good-bye !

And oh ! to follow, to seek, to dare,
When, step by step, in the evening air
Floats down to meet us the cloudy stair !
Good-bye good-bye good-bye !

The cloudy stair of the Brig o' Dread

Is the dizzy path that our feet must tread

Good-bye !

O children of Time O Nights and Days,
That gather and wonder and stand at gaze,
And wheeling stars in your lonely ways,
Good-bye good-bye good-bye !


The music calls and the gates unclose,
Onward and onward the wild way goes

Good-bye !

We die in the bliss of a great new birth,
O fading phantoms of pain and mirth,
O fading loves of the old green earth
Good-bye good-bye good-bye !


From the Irish of Enoch O' Gillan

IN a quiet water'd land, a land of roses,

Stands Saint Kieran's city fair :
And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations

Slumber there.

There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblest

Of the clan of Conn,
Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham

And the sacred knot thereon.

There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara,

There the sons of Cairbre sleep
Battle-banners of the Gael, that in Kieran's plain
of crosses

Now their final hosting keep.

And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia,

And right many a lord of Breagh ;
Deep the sod above Clan Creide and Clan Conaill,

Kind in hall and fierce in fray.

Many and many a son of Conn, the Hundred-Fighter,

In the red earth lies at rest ;
Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers,

Many a swan-white breast.



IT'S time the lamp was lit,

A sit my lone,

Watchin' the firelight play

On the cracked hearth-stone.

OuP dreams go through my head,

Like words o' a song.

A'm sittin' here my lone,

An' A'm thinkin' long.

A poor ouP doitered man
That yammers an' girns,
A was quarely differ'nt oncet
Wi' wife an' bairns.
The house was full o' weans
All straight an' strong,
It's desp'rit empty now,
An A'm thinkin' long.

It's time the lamp was lit
Och, let it stan' !
What need is there o' light
For an ouP done man ?
The house is empty now,
An' the Kirkyard throng ;
A'm sittin' here my lone,
An A'm thinkin' long.



BIG Alec o' the Hill
Is a strong farmer, an 5 rich ;
OuP Biddy in the loanin'
Is poor, an' a witch.

Big Alec is failin'
He dwinnles an' wastes ;
The blight's in his pitaties,
The murrain's on his bastes.

Big Alec sits an' wonders,
An' thinks, but doesn't know
The ill-turn he done Biddy
Twenty years ago.

The good Lord protect us

From secret harms !

A wouldn't stan' in big Alec's shoes

For all his farms.




CAN Doov DEELISH, beside the sea
I stand and stretch my hands to thee

Across the world.
The riderless horses race to shore
With thundering hoofs and shuddering, hoar,

Blown manes uncurled.

Can doov deelish, I cry to thee
Beyond the world, beneath the sea,

Thou being dead.

Where hast thou hidden from the beat
Of crushing hoofs and tearing feet

Thy dear black head ?

God bless the woman, whoever she be,
From the tossing waves will recover thee

And lashing wind.

Who will take thee out of the wind and storm,
Dry thy wet face on her bosom warm

And lips so kind ?

I not to know. It is hard to pray,

But I shall for this woman from day to day,

" Comfort my dead,

The sport of the winds and the play of the sea."
I loved thee too well for this thing to be,

O dear black head !



WHEN I crept over the hill, broken with tears,
When I crouched down on the grass, dumb in despair,
I heard the soft croon of the wind bend to my ears,
I felt the light kiss of the wind touching my hair.

When I stood lone on the height my sorrow did


As I went down the hill, I cried and I cried,
The soft little hands of the rain stroking my cheek,
The kind little feet of the rain ran by my side.

When I went to thy grave, broken with tears,
When I crouched down in the grass, dumb in despair,
I heard the sweet croon of the wind soft in my ears,
I felt the kind lips of the wind touching my hair.

When I stood lone by thy cross, sorrow did speak,
When I went down the long hill, I cried and I cried,
The soft little hands of the rain stroked my pale

The kind little feet of the rain ran by my side.



WHILE walking through the trams and cars
I chanced to look up at the sky,
And saw that it was full of stars.

So starry-sown that you could not,
With any care, have stuck a pin
Through any single vacant spot.

And some were shining furiously,

And some were big and some were small,

But all were beautiful to see.

Blue stars and gold, a sky of grey,
The air between a velvet pall ;
I could not take my eyes away.

And there I sang this little psalm
Most awkwardly, because I was
Standing between a car and tram.



MAD PATSY said, he said to me,
That every morning he could see
An angel walking on the sky ;
Across the sunny skies of morn
He threw great handfuls far and nigh
Of poppy seed among the corn ;
And then, he said, the angels run
To see the poppies in the sun.

A poppy is a devil weed,
I said to him he disagreed :
He said the devil had no hand
In spreading flowers tall and fair
Through corn and rye and meadow land,
By garth and barrow everywhere :
The devil has not any flower,
But only money in his power.

And then he stretched out in the sun
And rolled upon his back for fun :
He kicked his legs and roared for joy
Because the sun was shining down,
He said he was a little boy
And would not work for any clown :
He ran and laughed behind a bee;
And danced for very ecstasy.



IN Dublin town the people see
Gorgeous clouds sail gorgeously,
They are finer, I declare,
Than the clouds of anywhere.

A swirl of blue and red and green,
A stream of blinding gold, a sheen
From silver hill and pearly ridge
Comes each evening on the bridge.

So when you walk in a field, look down,
Lest you tramp on a daisy's crown,
But in a city look always high
And watch the beautiful clouds go by.




THE wind stood up and gave a shout ;

He whistled on his fingers, and

Kicked the withered leaves about

And thumped the branches with his hand,

And said he'd kill, and kill, and kill,

And so he will, and so he will.



I HAVE taken that vow
And you were my friend
But yesterday now

All that's at an end,

And you are my husband, and claim me, and I
must depend.

Yesterday I was free,
Now you, as I stand,
Walk over to me
And take hold of my hand.

You look at my lips, your eyes are too bold, your
smile is too bland.

My old name is lost,
My distinction of race :
Now the line has been crossed,
Must I step to your pace ?

Must I walk as you list, and obey, and smile up
in your face ?

All the white and the red
Of my cheeks you have won ;
All the hair of my head,
And my feet, tho' they run,

Are yours, and you own me and end me just as
I begun.


Must I bow when you speak,
Be silent and hear,
Inclining my cheek
And incredulous ear

To your voice, and command, and behest, hold
your lightest wish dear ?

I am woman, but still

Am alive, and can feel

Every intimate thrill

That is woe or is weal.

I, aloof, and divided, apart, standing far, can I kneel ?

if kneeling were right,

1 should kneel nor be sad,
And abase in your sight
All the pride that I had, '

I should come to you, hold to you, cling to you,
call to you, glad.

If not, I shall know,
I shall surely find out,
And your world will throw
In disaster and rout ;

I am woman and glory and beauty, I mystery,
terror, and doubt.

I am separate still,
I am I and not you :
And my mind and my will,
As in secret they grew,

Still are secret, unreached and untouched and not
subject to you.


To A. E.

I HEAR a sudden cry of pain !
There is a rabbit in a snare :
Now I hear the cry again,
But I cannot tell from where.

But I cannot tell from where
He is calling out for aid ;
Crying on the frightened air,
Making everything afraid.

Making everything afraid,
Wrinkling up his little face,
As he cries again for aid ;
And I cannot find the place !

And I cannot find the place
Where his paw is in the snare ;
Little one ! Oh, little one !
I am searching everywhere.



WHEN you were born, the Earth obeyed ;

(Call her, Echo !)

Fragrancies from the distance blew,
Beanfields and violets were made,
And jasmine by the cypress grew
Jasmine by the cloudy yew

(Call her, Echo !
Call Arolilia by her name!)

When you were born, despairs must die,

(Call her, Echo !)

Sweet tongues were loosened from a spell
Snow mountains glistened from on high
And torrents to the valleys fell
A song into Man's bosom fell

(Call her, Echo !
Call Arolilia by her name !)

When you were born, hid lightning's shape

(Call her, Echo !)

Took up the poor man's altar coal,
His green vine throbbed into the grape,
And in the dastard sprang a soul
Even in the dastard sprang a soul

(Call her, Echo !
Call Arolilia by her name /)


When you were born, all golden shot

(Call her, Echo /)

Fountains of daybreak from the sea,
And still, if near I find you not
If steps I hear, but you come not
Darkness lies on the world for me !

(Call her, Echo !
Call Arolilia by her name !)



HOUSE upon the Earth, be sad,
Lacking me thou mightst have had 1
Many seons did I wait
For admission to the Gate
Of the Living. But to see
Much was not vouchsafed to me,
Dazzled, in my little span.
I, that hoped to be a man,
Like a snowflake incarnated
Seem for three days light created.

I saw two Eyes, and break of Day
Gold on spires of Nineveh.
But, ere I one comrade made,
Or with a fellow Beastling played
Even while voices I forget
Called from cloud and minaret
Men to wake I stood once more
With the Dreams, outside the door.




VINE along my garden wall
Could I thine English slumber break,
And thee from wintry exile disenthral,
Where would thy spirit wake ?


1 would wake at the hour of dawning in May in Italy,
When rose mists rise from the Magra's valley plains
In the fields of maize and olives around Pontremoli
When peaks grow golden and clear and the starlight

wanes :
I would wake to the dance of the sacred mountains,


Kindling their marble snows in the rite of fire,
To them my newborn tendrils softly and soundlessly
Would uncurl and aspire.

I would hang no more on thy wall a rusted slumberer,
Listless and fruitless, strewing the pathways cold,
I would seem no more in thine eyes an idle cumberer
Profitless alien, bitter and sere and old.


In some warm terraced dell where the Roman rioted
And still in tiers his stony theatre heaves,
Would I festoon with leaf-light his glory quieted
And flake his thrones with leaves.

Doves from the mountain belfries w r ould seek and

cling to me
To drink from the altar, winnowing the fragrant

airs ;
Women from olived hillsides by turns would sing

to me

Beating the olives, or stooping afield in pairs ;
On gala evenings the gay little carts of labourers
Swinging from axles their horns against evil eye
And crowded with children, revellers, pipers and


Chanting would pass me by. . . .

There go the pale blue shadows so light and


Over sharp Apuan peaks rathe mists unwreathe
Almond trees wake, and the paven yards grow

Crocuses cry from the earth at the joy to

breathe ;
There through the deep-eaved gateways of haughty-


Arno house-laden bridges of strutted stalls
Mighty white oxen drag in the jars rich-spirited
Grazing the narrow walls !


Wine- jars I too have filled, and the heart was thrilled

with me !

Brown-limbed on shady turf the families lay,
Shouting they bowled the bowls, and old men filled

with me

Roused the September twilight with songs that day.
Lanterns of sun and moon the young children

flaunted me,

Plaiters of straw from doorway to window cried
Borne through the city gates the great oxen vaunted


Swaying from side to side.

Wine-jars out of my leafage that once so vitally
Throbbed into purple, of me thou shalt never take :
Thy heart would remember the towns on the branch

of Italy,
And teaching to throb I should teach it, perchance,

to break.
It would beat for those little cities, rock-hewn and

Festooned from summit to summit, where still


Murmur her temples, lovelier in their yellowing
Than in the morn of time,

I from the scorn of frost and the wind's iniquity

Barren, aloft in that golden air would thrive :

My passionate rootlets draw from that hearth's

Whirls of profound er fire in us to survive


Serried realms of our fathers would swell and foam

with us

Juice of the Latin sunrise ; your own sea-flung
Rude and far-wandered race might again find home

with us,
Leaguing with old Rome, young.



WHO art thou, starry ghost,

That ridest on the air

At head of all the host,

And art so burning-eyed

For all thy strengthlessness ?

World, I am no less

Than She whom thou hast awaited ;

She who remade a Poland out of nothingness,

And hath created

Ireland, out of a breath of pride

In the reed-bed of despair.



NOT soon shall I forget a sheet
Of golden water, cold and sweet,
The young moon with her head in veils
Of silver, and the nightingales.

A wain of hay came up the lane

fields I shall not walk again,
And trees I shall not see, so still
Against a sky of daffodil !

Fields where my happy heart had rest,
And where my heart was heaviest,

1 shall remember them at peace
Drenched in moon-silver like a fleece.

The golden water sweet and cold,
The moon of silver and of gold,
The dew upon the gray grass-spears,
I shall remember them with tears.




OUT of my door I step into
The country, all her scent and dew,
Nor travel there by a hard road,
Dusty and far from my abode.

The country washes to my door
Green miles on miles in soft uproar,
The thunder of the woods, and then
The backwash of green surf again.

Beyond the feverfew and stocks,
The guelder-rose and hollyhocks ;
Outside my trellised porch a tree
Of lilac frames a sky for me.

A stretch of primrose and pale green
To hold the tender Hesper in ;
Hesper that by the moon makes pale
Her silver keel and silver sail.

The country silence wraps me quite,
Silence and song and pure delight ;
The country beckons all the day
Smiling, and but a step away.


This is that country seen across
How many a league of love and loss,
Prayed for and longed for, and as far
As fountains in the desert are.

This is that country at my door,
Whose fragrant airs run on before,
And call me when the first birds stir
In the green wood to walk with her.



SHE drew the grey shawl round her head ;
" Sure it is bitter cold," she said ;
" An' is there news of him, asthore ? "
God help the mothers of the world !

"I do be prayin' to meseP
The Lord may keep him safe and well
An' bring him back to his mother's door."
God help the mothers of the world !

" The lambs are perished wid the storm.
God keep his darlin' head from harm !
It's well for her has ne'er a one ! "
God help the mothers of the world !

And as I went my way I heard
Her call like a lamenting bird :
" I used to fret that had no son."
God help the mothers of the world !

W. B. YEATS 117


DOWN by the salley gardens my love and I did

meet ;
She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white

She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on

the tree ;
But I, being young and foolish, with her would not


In a field by the river my love and I did stand,

And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-
white hand.

She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the
weirs ;

But I was young and foolish, and now am full of

n8 W. B. YEATS



As I came over Windy Gap

They threw a halfpenny into my cap,

For I am running to Paradise ;

And all that I need do is to wish

And somebody puts his hand in the dish

To throw me a bit of salted fish :

And there the king is but as the beggar.

My brother Mourteen is worn out

With skelping his big brawling lout,

And I am running to Paradise ;

A poor life do what he can,

And though he keep a dog and a gun,

A serving maid and a serving man :

And there the king is but as the beggar.

Poor men have grown to be rich men,
And rich men grown to be poor again,
And I am running to Paradise ;
And many a darling wit's grown dull
That tossed a bare heel when at school,
Now it has filled an old sock full :
And there the king is but as the beggar.

W. B. YEATS 119

The wind is old and still at play

While I must hurry upon my way,

For I am running to Paradise ;

Yet never have I lit on a friend

To take my fancy like the wind

That nobody can buy or bind :

And there the king is but as the beggar.

120 W. B. YEATS


I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles

made :
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the

honey bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes

dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where

the cricket sings ;
There midnight's all aglimmer, and noon a purple

And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the

shore ;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements

I hear it in the deep heart's core.

W. B. YEATS 121


THE quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves,
The full round moon and the star-laden sky,
And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves,
Had hid away earth's old and weary cry.

And then you came with those red mournful lips,
And with you came the whole of the world's tears
And all the trouble of her labouring ships,
And all the trouble of her myriad years.

And now the sparrows warring in the eaves,
The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky,
And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves,
Are shaken with earth's old and weary cry.

122 W. B. YEATS


THE trees are in their autumn beauty,

The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water

Mirrors a still sky ;
Upon the brimming water among the stones

Are nine and fifty swans.

The nineteenth Autumn has come upon me

Since I first made my count ;
I saw, before I had well finished,

All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings

Upon their clamorous wings.

I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,

And now my heart is sore.
All's changed since I, hearing at twilight,

The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,

Trod with a lighter tread.

W. B. YEATS 123

Unwearied still, lover by lover,

They paddle in the cold,
Companionable streams or climb the air ;

Their hearts have not grown old ;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,

Attend upon them still.

But now they drift on the still water

Mysterious, beautiful ;
Among what rushes will they build,

By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day

To find they have flown away ?

i2 4 W. B. YEATS


RED Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my

days !

Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways :
Cuchulain battling with the bitter tide ;
The Druid, gray, wood-nurtured, quiet-eyed,
Who cast round Fergus dreams, and ruin untold ;
And thine own sadness, whereof stars, grown old
In dancing silver sandalled on the sea,
Sing in their high and lonely melody.
Come near, that no more blinded by man's fate,
I find under the boughs of love and hate,
In all poor foolish things that live a day,
Eternal beauty wandering on her way.

Come near, come near, come near Ah, leave me


A little space for the rose-breath to fill !
Lest I no more hear common things that crave ;
The weak worm hiding down in its small cave,
The field mouse running by me in the grass,
And heavy mortal hopes that toil and pass ;
But seek alone to hear the strange things said
By God to the bright hearts of those long dead,

W. B. YEATS 125

And learn to chaunt a tongue men do not know.
Come near ; I would, before my time to go,
Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways :
Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days.

126 W. B. YEATS


WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true ;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.


FOR their kindly permission to use Copyright Poems the Editor
is deeply indebted to :

THE AUTHORS : A. E., J. Campbell, P. R. Chalmers, N. Chesson,
A. Clarke, P. Colum, J. H. Cousins, H. L. Doak, D.
Figgis, I. Hume (I. H. Fisher), D. Hyde, E. Gore-Booth,
P. Gregory, S. Leslie, W. M. Letts, E. E. Lysaght, J. F.
MacEntee, P. MacGill, S. Mitchell, " M. O'Neill,"
S. O'Sullivan, R. Rowley, J. Stephens, H. Trench, K.
Tynan and W. B. Yeats.

THE LITERARY EXECUTORS OF : L. Johnson, F. Ledwidge, T.
MacDonagh, P. H. Pearse, J. M. Plunkett, T. W. Rolleston
and D. Sigerson (Mrs. Clement Shorter).

AND THE FOLLOWING PUBLISHERS in respect of the poems selected :
Messrs. Blackwood & Sons.

" M. O'Neill " : The Songs of the Glens of Antrim.

Messrs. Constable & Co., Ltd.

D. Sigerson : The Sad Tears.

H. Trench : Poems with. Fables in Prose.

Messrs. M. H. Gill & Son, Ltd.

D. Hyde : Love Songs of Connac/it.

Messrs. Henry Holt & Co. of New York.

P. Colum : Wild Earth and Other Poems.

Mr. Herbert Jenkins.

F. Ledwidge : Complete Poems.

P. MacGill : Songs of Donegal.

Messrs. Macmillan & Co., Ltd.

A. E. : Poems.

J. Stephens : The Adventures of Seumas Beg.

Songs from the Clay.



W. B. Yeats :

Mr. Elkin Matthews.
N. Chesson :
L. Johnson :

Messrs. Maunsel and Roberts,
P. Chalmers:
A. Clarke :
P. Colum:
J. H. Cousins :

D. Figgis:

E. Gore-Booth:

T. Hume (I.H. Fisher) :
E. E. Lysaght :
S. Mitchell:
S. O'Sullivan:
P. H. Pearse :
T. W. Rolleston :
R. Rowley:
J. Stephens :
Mr. John Murray.
W. M. Letts :


The Wild Swans at Coole.

Poetical Works.


Green Days and Blue Days.
The Vengeance of Fionn.
Wild Earth and Other Poems.
The Bell-Branch.
The Mount of Transfiguration.
Broken Glory.

The Pursuit and Other Poems.
Irish Eclogues.
The Living Chalice.
The Rosses and Other Poems.
Collected Works.
Sea Spray.

City Songs and Others.

Songs from Leinster.

Messrs. Sidgwick and Jackson, Ltd.

K. Tynan :

The Talbot Press, Ltd.
H. L. Doak :
T. MacDonagh:
J. F. MacEntee :
J. M. Plunkett :

Mr. T. Fisher Unwin, Ltd.
W. B. Yeats :

Late Songs.

The Three-Rock Road.





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