A Book of Irish Verse Part 25

I saw how all the trembling ages past, Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath, Neared to the hour when Beauty breathes her last And knows herself in death.

_A.E._

SUNG ON A BY-WAY

What of all the will to do?

It has vanished long ago, For a dream-shaft pierced it through From the Unknown Archer's bow.

What of all the soul to think?

Some one offered it a cup Filled with a diviner drink, And the flame has burned it up.

What of all the hope to climb?

Only in the self we grope To the misty end of time: Truth has put an end to hope.

What of all the heart to love?

Sadder than for will or soul, No light lured it on above; Love has found itself the whole.

_A.E._

DREAM LOVE

I did not deem it half so sweet To feel thy gentle hand, As in a dream thy soul to greet Across wide leagues of land.

Untouched more near to draw to you Where, amid radiant skies, Glimmered thy plumes of iris hue, My Bird of Paradise.

Let me dream only with my heart, Love first, and after see: Know thy diviner counterpart Before I kneel to thee.

So in thy motions all expressed Thy angel I may view: I shall not in thy beauty rest, But Beauty's ray on you.

_A.E._

ILLUSION

What is the love of shadowy lips That know not what they seek or press, From whom the lure for ever slips And fails their phantom tenderness?

The mystery and light of eyes That near to mine grow dim and cold; They move afar in ancient skies Mid flame and mystic darkness rolled.

O beauty, as thy heart o'erflows In tender yielding unto me, A vast desire awakes and grows Unto forgetfulness of thee.

_A.E._

Ja.n.u.s

Image of beauty, when I gaze on thee, Trembling I waken to a mystery, How through one door we go to life or death By spirit kindled or the sensual breath.

Image of beauty, when my way I go; No single joy or sorrow do I know: Elate for freedom leaps the starry power, The life which pa.s.ses mourns its wasted hour.

And, ah, to think how thin the veil that lies Between the pain of h.e.l.l and paradise!

Where the cool gra.s.s my aching head embowers G.o.d sings the lovely carol of the flowers.

_A.E._

CONNLA'S WELL

A cabin on the mountain side hid in a gra.s.sy nook, With door and windows open wide where friendly stars may look; The rabbit shy can patter in; the winds may enter free Who throng around the mountain throne in living ecstasy.

And when the sun sets dimmed in eve and purple fills the air, I think the sacred hazel tree is dropping berries there From starry fruitage waved aloft where Connla's well o'erflows; For sure the immortal waters run through every wind that blows.

I think when night towers up aloft and shakes the trembling dew, How every high and lonely thought that thrills my spirit through Is but a s.h.i.+ning berry dropped down through the purple air, And from the magic tree of life the fruit falls everywhere.

_A.E._

NAMES

No temple crowned the s.h.a.ggy capes, No safety soothed the kind, The clouds unfabled s.h.i.+fted shapes, And nameless roamed the wind.

The stars, the circling heights of heaven, The mountains bright with snows Looked down, and sadly man at even Lay down and sad he rose.

Till ages brought the hour again, When fell a windless morn, And, child of agonistic pain And bliss, the Word was born.

Which grew from all it gazed upon, And spread thro' soil and sphere, And shrunk the whole into the one, And fetched the farthest here.

High is the summer's night, but deep The hidden mind unfolds: Within it does an image sleep Of all that it beholds.

Alas! when man with busy brow, His conquering names hath set To planet, plant, and worm, who now Will teach us to forget?