George William Russell
Breaghy
WHEN twilight flutters the mountains over, The faery lights from the earth unfold: And over the caves enchanted hover The giant heroes and gods of old. The bird of æther its flaming pinions Waves
Echoes
THE MIGHT that shaped itself through storm and stress In chaos, here is lulled in breathing sweet; Under the long brown ridge in gentleness Its fierce old pulses beat. Quiet and sad we go
Brotherhood
TWILIGHT, a blossom grey in shadowy valleys dwells: Under the radiant dark the deep blue-tinted bells In quietness reГЇmage heaven within their blooms, Sapphire and gold and mystery. What strange perfumes, Out of what
Faith
HERE where the loves of others close The vision of my heart begins. The wisdom that within us grows Is absolution for our sins. We took forbidden fruit and ate Far in the garden
Frolic
THE CHILDREN were shouting together And racing along the sands, A glimmer of dancing shadows, A dovelike flutter of hands. The stars were shouting in heaven, The sun was chasing the moon: The game
The Virgin Mother
WHO is that goddess to whom men should pray, But her from whom their hearts have turned away, Out of whose virgin being they were born, Whose mother nature they have named with scorn
The Master Singer
A LAUGHTER in the diamond air, a music in the trembling grass; And one by one the words of light as joydrops through my being pass: “I am the sunlight in the heart, the
The Child of Destiny
THIS is the hero-heart of the enchanted isle, Whom now the twilight children tenderly enfold, Pat with their pearly palms and crown with elfin gold, While in the mountain’s breast his brothers watch and
Benediction
NOW the rooftree of the midnight spreading, Buds in citron, green, and blue: From afar its mystic odours shedding, Child, on you. Now the buried stars beneath the mountain And the vales their life
Star Teachers
EVEN as a bird sprays many-coloured fires, The plumes of paradise, the dying light Rays through the fevered air in misty spires That vanish in the heights. These myriad eyes that look on me
A New Being
I KNOW myself no more, my child, Since thou art come to me, Pity so tender and so wild Hath wrapped my thoughts of thee. These thoughts, a fiery gentle rain, Are from the
A Midnight Meditation
HOW often have I said, “We may not grieve for the immortal dead.” And now, poor blenchèd heart, Thy ruddy hues all tremulous depart. Why be with fate at strife Because one passes on
Light and Dark
NOT the soul that’s whitest Wakens love the sweetest: When the heart is lightest Oft the charm is fleetest. While the snow-frail maiden, Waits the time of learning, To the passion laden Turn with
On a Hill-top
BEARDED with dewy grass the mountains thrust Their blackness high into the still grey light, Deepening to blue: far up the glimmering height In silver transience shines the starry dust. Silent the sheep about
An Irish Face
NOT her own sorrow only that hath place Upon yon gentle face. Too slight have been her childhood’s years to gain The imprint of such pain. It hid behind her laughing hours, and wrought