The Daisies

Is the scented bud of the morning-O,
When the windy grass went rippling far,
I saw my dear one walking slow,
In the field where the daisies are.

We did not laugh and we did not speak
As we wandered happily to and fro ;
I kissed my dear on either cheek,
In the bud of the morning-O.

A lark sang up from the breezy land,
A lark sang down from a cloud afar,
And she and I went hand in hand
In the field where the daisies are.

The Pit of Bliss

When I was young I dared to sing
Of everything and anything :
Of joy and woe and fate and God,
Of dreaming cloud and teeming sod,
Of hill that thrust and amber spear
into the sunset, and the soul
Precipice that shakes the soul
To its black gape—I sang the whole
Of man and God, nor sought to know
God or man or joy or woe :
And, thought an older wight I be,
My Soul hath still such ecstasy
That, on a pulse, I sing and sing
Of everything and anything. There is a light shines in the head ;
It is not gold, it is not red ;
But, as the lightning's blinding light,
It is a stare of silver white
That one surmise would fancy blue :
On that mind-binding hue I gaze
An instant, and am in a maze
Of thinking—could one call it so ?
It is no feeling that I know
—An hurricane of knowing, that
Could whelm the soul that was not pat
To flinch and lose the deadly thing,
And sing, and sing again, and sing
Of everything and anything.

An eagle, whirling up the sky,
Sunblind, dizzy, urging high,
And higher urging yet a wing,
Until he can no longer cling,
Or hold, or do a thing, but fall
And sink and whirl and scream through all
The dizzy heaven-hell of pit,
In mile-a-minute flight from it
That he had dared—From height of height,
So the poet takes his flight
And tumble in the pit of bliss,
And, in the roar of that abyss,
And falling, he will sing and sing
Of everything and anything.

What is knowing—'tis to see :
What is feeling—'tis to be :
What is love—but more and more
To see and be, to be a pour
And avalanche of being, till
The being ceases and is still
For very motion—What is joy,
—Being, past all earthly cloy
And intermixture : being spun
Of itself is being won :
—That is joy, and this is God
To be that in cloud and clod,
And in cloud and clod and sing
Of everything and anything.

To Clemens J. France.

Away ! Far Away !

Slów
Creatures
Slów,

Nuzzle and press,
And take their food
In the darkness.

No stir is now
In all that once
Was all ;

No dréam, no sight,
No soúnd, no sense
If thére.

Unséen
The béam
Of the sun :

Unknówn
The ring
Of the light :

Unknówn
In the cave
Unséen

By the slów,
Slów
Hungers

Naught's
Left
—But foód ;

All else
That was
Is awáy :

Far-awáy,

In the gléam,
In the ring
In the béam

In the Sun.

Note: Accented letters are to be sounded for as long as possible. Two beats of this duration are to be held at the end of each line, four at the end of each verse. Unmarked words and phrases are to be said quickly, and ended sharply. All line endings and verse endings, or silences, are to be well held.

Nora Criona

I have looked him round and looked him through,
Know everything that he will do
In such a case, and such a case,
And when a frown comes on his face
I dream of it, and when a smile
I trace its sources in a while.

He cannot do a thing but I
Peep to find the reason why,
Because I love him and I seek,
Every evening in the week,
To peep behind his frowning eye
With little query, little pry,
And make him if a woman can
Happier than any other man.

Yesterday he gripped her tight
And cut her throat—and serve her right !

Righteous Anger

The lanky hank of a she in the inn over there
Nearly killed me for asking the loan of a glass of beer :
May the devil grip the whey-faced slut by the hair
And beat bad manners out of her skin for a year.

That parboiled imp, with the hardest jaw you will ever see
On virtue's path, and a voice that would rasp the dead,
Came roaring and raging the minute she looked at me,
And threw me out of the house on the back of my head !

If I asked her master he'd give me a cask a day ;
But she with the beer at hand, not a gill would arrange !
May she marry a ghost and bear him a kitten and may
The High King of Glory permit her to get the mange

Geoffrey Keating

O woman full of wiliness !
Although for love of me you pine,
Withhold your hand adventurous,
It holdeth nothing holding mine.

Look on my head, how it is grey !
My body's weakness doth appear ;
My blood is chill and thin; my day
Is done, and there is nothing here.

Do not call me a foolish man,
Nor lean your lovely cheek to mine :
O slender witch, our bodies can
Not mingle now, nor any time.

So take your mouth from mine, your hand
From mine, ah, take your lips away !
Lest heat to will should ripen, and
All this be grave that had been gay.

It is this curl, a silken nest,
And this grey eye bright as the dew,
And this round, lovely, snow-white breast
That draws desire in search of you.

I would do all for you, meseems,
Bit this, tho' this were happiness !
I shall not mingle in your dreams,
O woman full of wiliness !

Green Weeds

o be not jealous give not love ;
Rate not thy fair all fair above,
Of thou'lt be decked in green, the hue
That jealousy is bounden to.

That lily hand, those lips of fire,
Those dewy eyes that spill desire,
Those mounds of lambent snow may be
Found anywhere it pleaseth thee

To turn : the turn, and be not mad
Tho' all of lov'liness she had :
She hath not all of lov'liness ;
A store remains wherewith to bless

The bee, the bird, the butterfly
And thou—Go, search with those that fly
For that which thou shalt easy find
On every path and any wind.

Nor dream that she be Seal or Star
Who is but as her sisters are ;
And whose reply is yes and no
To all that come and all that go.

"I love"—Then love again, my friend,
Enjoy thy love without an end ;
"I love"—Ah, cease, know what is what,
Thou dost not love if she love not.

For if thou truly loved her
From thee away show could not stir,
Bur ever at thy side would be
Thyself and thy felicity.

Go, drape thee in the greeny hue ;
Thou art not Love, she is not True,
And, no more need be said—adieu

Peggy Mitchell

As lily grows up easily,
In modest, gentle dignity
To sweet perfection,
So grew she,
As easily.

Or as the rose that takes no care
Will open out on sunny air
Bloom after bloom, fair after fair,
Sweet after sweet ;
Just so did she,
As carelessly.

She is our torment without end,
She is our enemy and friend,
Our joy, our woe ;
Madness or glee
To you and me,
And endlessly.

Nancy Walsh

I, without bite or sup
If thou wert fated for me,
I would up
And would go after thee
Through mountains.

A thousand thanks from me
To God have gone,
Because I have not lost my senses to thee,
Though it was hardly I escaped from thee,
O ringleted one !

The Coolun

Come with me, under my coat,
And we will drink our fill
Of the milk of the white goat,
Or wine if it be thy will ;
And we will talk until
Talk is a trouble, too,

Out on the side of the hill,
And nothing is left to do,
But an eye to look into an eye
And a hand in a hand to slip,
And a sigh to answer a sigh,
And a lip to find out a lip :
What if the night be black
And the air on the mountain chill,
Where the goat lies down in her track
And all but the fern is still !
Stay with me under my coat,
And we will drink our fill
Of the milk of the white goat
Out on the side of the hill.

Mary Hynes

She is the sky of the sun,
She is the dart
Of Love,
She is the love of my heart,
She is a rune,
She is above
The woman of the race of eve
As the sun is above the moon.

Lovely and airy the view from the hill
That looks down Ballylea ;
But no good sight is good until
By great good luck you see
The Blossom of the Branches walking towards you
Airily.