Hound Voice
Because we love bare hills and stunted trees And were the last to choose the settled ground, Its boredom of the desk or of the spade, because So many years companioned by a hound,
A Man Young And Old: IX. The Secrets Of The Old
I have old women’s secrets now That had those of the young; Madge tells me what I dared not think When my blood was strong, And what had drowned a lover once Sounds like
The Ballad Of Moll Magee
Come round me, little childer; There, don’t fling stones at me Because I mutter as I go; But pity Moll Magee. My man was a poor fisher With shore lines in the say; My
The Mother Of God
The threefold terror of love; a fallen flare Through the hollow of an ear; Wings beating about the room; The terror of all terrors that I bore The Heavens in my womb. Had I
The Black Tower
Say that the men of the old black tower, Though they but feed as the goatherd feeds, Their money spent, their wine gone sour, Lack nothing that a soldier needs, That all are oath-bound
His Dream
I swayed upon the gaudy stem The butt-end of a steering-oar, And saw wherever I could turn A crowd upon a shore. And though I would have hushed the crowd, There was no mother’s
He Reproves The Curlew
O curlew, cry no more in the air, Or only to the water in the West; Because your crying brings to my mind Passion-dimmed eyes and long heavy hair That was shaken out over
To The Rose Upon The Rood Of Time
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, grey, wood-nurtured, quiet-eyed, Who cast round Fergus
The Folly Of Being Comforted
One that is ever kind said yesterday: ‘Your well-beloved’s hair has threads of grey, And little shadows come about her eyes; Time can but make it easier to be wise Though now it seems
The Statues
Pythagoras planned it. Why did the people stare? His numbers, though they moved or seemed to move In marble or in bronze, lacked character. But boys and girls, pale from the imagined love Of
Words
I had this thought a while ago, ‘My darling cannot understand What I have done, or what would do In this blind bitter land.’ And I grew weary of the sun Until my thoughts
From The 'Antigone'
Overcome O bitter sweetness, Inhabitant of the soft cheek of a girl The rich man and his affairs, The fat flocks and the fields’ fatness, Mariners, rough harvesters; Overcome Gods upon Parnassus; Overcome the
Upon A Dying Lady
I Her Courtesy With the old kindness, the old distinguished grace, She lies, her lovely piteous head amid dull red hair Propped upon pillows, rouge on the pallor of her face. She would not
Meeting
Hidden by old age awhile In masker’s cloak and hood, Each hating what the other loved, Face to face we stood: ‘That I have met with such,’ said he, ‘Bodes me little good.’ ‘Let
The Travail Of Passion
When the flaming lute-thronged angelic door is wide; When an immortal passion breathes in mortal clay; Our hearts endure the scourge, the plaited thorns, the way Crowded with bitter faces, the wounds in palm