The Wild Swans at Coole Part 8

To all that in your flesh have stood And blessed, I give my grat.i.tude, Honoured by all in their degrees, But most to Alcibiades.

TWO SONGS OF A FOOL

I

A speckled cat and a tame hare Eat at my hearthstone And sleep there; And both look up to me alone For learning and defence As I look up to Providence.

I start out of my sleep to think Some day I may forget Their food and drink; Or, the house door left unshut, The hare may run till it's found The horn's sweet note and the tooth of the hound.

I bear a burden that might well try Men that do all by rule, And what can I That am a wandering witted fool But pray to G.o.d that He ease My great responsibilities.

II

I slept on my three-legged stool by the fire, The speckled cat slept on my knee; We never thought to enquire Where the brown hare might be, And whether the door were shut.

Who knows how she drank the wind Stretched up on two legs from the mat, Before she had settled her mind To drum with her heel and to leap: Had I but awakened from sleep And called her name she had heard, It may be, and had not stirred, That now, it may be, has found The horn's sweet note and the tooth of the hound.

ANOTHER SONG OF A FOOL

This great purple b.u.t.terfly, In the prison of my hands, Has a learning in his eye Not a poor fool understands.

Once he lived a schoolmaster With a stark, denying look, A string of scholars went in fear Of his great birch and his great book.

Like the clangour of a bell, Sweet and harsh, harsh and sweet, That is how he learnt so well To take the roses for his meat.

THE DOUBLE VISION OF MICHAEL ROBARTES

I

On the grey rock of Cashel the mind's eye Has called up the cold spirits that are born When the old moon is vanished from the sky And the new still hides her horn.

Under blank eyes and fingers never still The particular is pounded till it is man, When had I my own will?

Oh, not since life began.

Constrained, arraigned, baffled, bent and unbent By these wire-jointed jaws and limbs of wood, Themselves obedient, Knowing not evil and good;

Obedient to some hidden magical breath.

They do not even feel, so abstract are they, So dead beyond our death, Triumph that we obey.

II

On the grey rock of Cashel I suddenly saw A Sphinx with woman breast and lion paw, A Buddha, hand at rest, Hand lifted up that blest;

And right between these two a girl at play That it may be had danced her life away, For now being dead it seemed That she of dancing dreamed.

Although I saw it all in the mind's eye There can be nothing solider till I die; I saw by the moon's light Now at its fifteenth night.

One lashed her tail; her eyes lit by the moon Gazed upon all things known, all things unknown, In triumph of intellect With motionless head erect.

That other's moonlit eyeb.a.l.l.s never moved, Being fixed on all things loved, all things unloved, Yet little peace he had For those that love are sad.

Oh, little did they care who danced between, And little she by whom her dance was seen So that she danced. No thought, Body perfection brought,

For what but eye and ear silence the mind With the minute particulars of mankind?

Mind moved yet seemed to stop As 'twere a spinning-top.

In contemplation had those three so wrought Upon a moment, and so stretched it out That they, time overthrown, Were dead yet flesh and bone.

III

I knew that I had seen, had seen at last That girl my unremembering nights hold fast Or else my dreams that fly, If I should rub an eye,

And yet in flying fling into my meat A crazy juice that makes the pulses beat As though I had been undone By Homer's Paragon

Who never gave the burning town a thought; To such a pitch of folly I am brought, Being caught between the pull Of the dark moon and the full,

The commonness of thought and images That have the frenzy of our Western seas.

Thereon I made my moan, And after kissed a stone,

And after that arranged it in a song Seeing that I, ignorant for so long, Had been rewarded thus In Cormac's ruined house.

NOTE

"_Unpack the loaded pern_," p. 36.

When I was a child at Sligo I could see above my grandfather's trees a little column of smoke from "the pern mill," and was told that "pern"

was another name for the spool, as I was accustomed to call it, on which thread was wound. One could not see the chimney for the trees, and the smoke looked as if it came from the mountain, and one day a foreign sea-captain asked me if that was a burning mountain.

W. B. Y.