Delphi Works of W. B. Yeats (Illustrated) E-Book

W.b.yeats

• Herausgeber: Delphi Classics
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: Delphi Poets Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 1606

Beschreibung

This is the seventh volume of a new series of publications by Delphi Classics, the best-selling publisher of classical works. Many poetry collections are often poorly formatted and difficult to read on eReaders. The Delphi Poets Series offers readers the works of literature's finest poets, with superior formatting. This volume presents the poetical works and plays of W. B. Yeats, with illustrations and the usual Delphi bonus material. (Version: 1)

* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Yeats' life and works
* Concise introductions to the poetry and other works
* Ten poetry collections – the most poems possible due to US copyright restrictions
* Images of how the poetry books were first printed, giving your eReader a taste of the original texts
* Excellent formatting of the poems and plays
* Special chronological and alphabetical contents tables for the poetry
* Easily locate the poems you want to read
* 19 plays, including rare dramas appearing for the first time in digital print
* Features two autobiographies - discover Yeats' literary life
* Scholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres

Please note: to comply with US copyright restrictions, poetry collections, plays and autobiographical works published after 1922 cannot appear in this volume. Once these later works enter the US public domain, they will be added as a free update to the eBook.

Please visit www.delphiclassics.com to browse through our range of exciting titles

CONTENTS

The Poetry Collections
THE WANDERINGS OF OISIN AND OTHER POEMS
THE COUNTESS KATHLEEN AND VARIOUS LEGENDS AND LYRICS
THE WIND AMONG THE REEDS
Poems from THE SHADOWY WATERS
TWO NARRATIVE POEMS
IN THE SEVEN WOODS
THE GREEN HELMET AND OTHER POEMS
RESPONSIBILITIES
THE WILD SWANS AT COOLE
MICHAEL ROBARTES AND THE DANCER

The Poems
LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

The Plays
THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN
THE LAND OF HEART’S DESIRE
DIARMUID AND GRANIA
WHERE THERE IS NOTHING
CATHLEEN NI HOULIHAN
THE HOUR-GLASS
THE POT OF BROTH
THE KING’S THRESHOLD
ON BAILE’S STRAND
DEIRDRE
THE UNICORN FROM THE STARS
THE GREEN HELMET
THE SHADOWY WATERS
THE HOUR-GLASS (VERSE VERSION)
AT THE HAWK’S WELL
THE DREAMING OF THE BONES
THE ONLY JEALOUSY OF EMER
CALVARY
THE PLAYER QUEEN

The Autobiographies
REVERIES OVER CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH
THE TREMBLING OF THE VEIL

Leseprobe

W. B. YEATS

(1865–1939)

Contents

The Poetry Collections

THE WANDERINGS OF OISIN AND OTHER POEMS

THE COUNTESS KATHLEEN AND VARIOUS LEGENDS AND LYRICS

THE WIND AMONG THE REEDS

Poems from THE SHADOWY WATERS

TWO NARRATIVE POEMS

IN THE SEVEN WOODS

THE GREEN HELMET AND OTHER POEMS

RESPONSIBILITIES

THE WILD SWANS AT COOLE

MICHAEL ROBARTES AND THE DANCER

The Poems

LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER

LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

The Plays

THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN

THE LAND OF HEART’S DESIRE

DIARMUID AND GRANIA

WHERE THERE IS NOTHING

CATHLEEN NI HOULIHAN

THE HOUR-GLASS

THE POT OF BROTH

THE KING’S THRESHOLD

ON BAILE’S STRAND

DEIRDRE

THE UNICORN FROM THE STARS

THE GREEN HELMET

THE SHADOWY WATERS

THE HOUR-GLASS (VERSE VERSION)

AT THE HAWK’S WELL

THE DREAMING OF THE BONES

THE ONLY JEALOUSY OF EMER

CALVARY

THE PLAYER QUEEN

The Autobiographies

REVERIES OVER CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH

THE TREMBLING OF THE VEIL

©Delphi Classics 2012

Version 1

Please note: to comply with US copyright restrictions, poetry collections, plays and autobiographical works published after 1922 cannot appear in this volume.  Once these later works enter the US public domain, they will be added as a free update to the eBook.

W. B. YEATS

By Delphi Classics, 2012

NOTE

When reading poetry on an eReader, it is advisable to use a small font size, which will allow the lines of poetry to display correctly.

The Poetry Collections

Sandymount, County Dublin — Yeats’ birthplace, 1911

Yeats’ birthplace today

Yeats’ father was an artist and in 1900 he painted this portrait of his son.

Yeats’ parents

THE WANDERINGS OF OISIN AND OTHER POEMS

Yeats’ first poetry collection was published in 1889, with poems dating as far back as the mid-1880s. The title piece, which is Yeats’ longest narrative poem, concerns characters from the Fenian Cycle of Irish mythology, revealing how Yeats was influenced by Sir Samuel Ferguson and the Pre-Raphaelite poets of the time.  The poem took two years to complete and was one of the few works from this period that the poet did not disown in his maturity. Oisin represents one of Yeats’ most important themes: the preference of a life of contemplation over a life of action. Following the publication of The Wanderings Of Oisin, Yeats never again attempted a long poem.

In the narrative, the fairy princess Niamh falls in love with Oisin's poetry and begs him to join her in the immortal islands. For a hundred years he lives as one of the Sidhe, while hunting, dancing and feasting. At the end of this time he finds a spear washed up on the shore, which evokes sad feelings as he remembers his previous life, heralding the beginning of his wanderings.

The poetry collection also contains short poems, which are meditations on the themes of love and mystical subjects, and they were later collected under the title Crossways.

The first edition

CONTENTS

THE WANDERINGS OF USHEEN

THE SONG OF THE HAPPY SHEPHERD

THE SAD SHEPHERD

THE CLOAK, THE BOAT, AND THE SHOES

ANASHUYA AND VIJAYA

THE INDIAN UPON GOD

THE INDIAN TO HIS LOVE

THE FALLING OF THE LEAVES

EPHEMERA

THE MADNESS OF KING GOLL

THE STOLEN CHILD

TO AN ISLE IN THE WATER

DOWN BY THE SALLEY GARDENS

THE MEDITATION OF THE OLD FISHERMAN

THE BALLAD OF FATHER O’HART

THE BALLAD OF MOLL MAGEE

THE BALLAD OF THE FOXHUNTER

Yeats, in the year when his first poetry collection was published

THE WANDERINGS OF USHEEN

“Give me the world if Thou wilt, but grant me an asylum for my affections.”

Tulka.

ToEDWIN J. ELLIS

BOOK I

S. PATRIC

You who are bent, and bald, and blind,With a heavy heart and a wandering mind,Have known three centuries, poets sing,Of dalliance with a demon thing.

USHEEN

Sad to remember, sick with years,The swift innumerable spears,The horsemen with their floating hair,And bowls of barley, honey, and wine,And feet of maidens dancing in tune,And the white body that lay by mine;But the tale, though words be lighter than air,Must live to be old like the wandering moon.

Caolte, and Conan, and Finn were there,When we followed a deer with our baying hounds,With Bran, Sgeolan, and Lomair,And passing the Firbolgs’ burial mounds,Came to the cairn-heaped grassy hillWhere passionate Maive is stony still;And found on the dove-gray edge of the seaA pearl-pale, high-born lady, who rodeOn a horse with bridle of findrinny;And like a sunset were her lips,A stormy sunset on doomed ships;A citron colour gloomed in her hair,But down to her feet white vesture flowed,And with the glimmering crimson glowedOf many a figured embroidery;And it was bound with a pearl-pale shellThat wavered like the summer streams,As her soft bosom rose and fell.

S. PATRIC

You are still wrecked among heathen dreams.

USHEEN

“Why do you wind no horn?” she said.“And every hero droop his head?“The hornless deer is not more sad“That many a peaceful moment had,“More sleek than any granary mouse,“In his own leafy forest house“Among the waving fields of fern:“The hunting of heroes should be glad.”

“O pleasant woman,” answered Finn,“We think on Oscar’s pencilled urn,“And on the heroes lying slain,On Gavra’s raven-covered plain;“But where are your noble kith and kin,“And from what country do you ride?”

“My father and my mother are“Aengus and Adene, my own name“Niam, and my country far“Beyond the tumbling of this tide.”

“What dream came with you that you came“Through bitter tide on foam wet feet?“Did your companion wander away“From where the birds of Aengus wing?”

She said, with laughter tender and sweet:“I have not yet, war-weary king,“Been spoken of with any one;“Yet now I choose, for these four feet“Ran through the foam and ran to this“That I might have your son to kiss.”

“Were there no better than my son“That you through all that foam should run?”

“I loved no man, though kings besought“Love, till the Danaan poets brought“Rhyme, that rhymed to Usheen’s name,“And now I am dizzy with the thought“Of all that wisdom and the fame“Of battles broken by his hands,“Of stories builded by his words“That are like coloured Asian birds“At evening in their rainless lands.”

O Patric, by your brazen bell,There was no limb of mine but fellInto a desperate gulph of love!“You only will I wed,” I cried,“And I will make a thousand songs,“And set your name all names above.“And captives bound with leathern thongs“Shall kneel and praise you, one by one,“At evening in my western dun.”

“O Usheen, mount by me and ride“To shores by the wash of the tremulous tide,“Where men have heaped no burial mounds,“And the days pass by like a wayward tune,“Where broken faith has never been known,“And the blushes of first love never have flown;“And there I will give you a hundred hounds;“No mightier creatures bay at the moon;“And a hundred robes of murmuring silk,“And a hundred calves and a hundred sheep“Whose long wool whiter than sea froth flows,“And a hundred spears and a hundred bows,“And oil and wine and honey and milk,“And always never-anxious sleep;“While a hundred youths, mighty of limb,“But knowing nor tumult nor hate nor strife,“And a hundred maidens, merry as birds,“Who when they dance to a fitful measure“Have a speed like the speed of the salmon herds,“Shall follow your horn and obey your whim,“And you shall know the Danaan leisure:“And Niam be with you for a wife.”Then she sighed gently, “It grows late,“Music and love and sleep await,“Where I would be when the white moon climbs“The red sun falls, and the world grows dim.”

And then I mounted and she bound meWith her triumphing arms around me,And whispering to herself enwound me;But when the horse had felt my weight,He shook himself and neighed three times:Caolte, Conan, and Finn came near,And wept, and raised their lamenting hands,And bid me stay, with many a tear;But we rode out from the human lands.

In what far kingdom do you go,Ah, Fenians, with the shield and bow?Or are you phantoms white as snow,Whose lips had life’s most prosperous glow?O you, with whom in sloping valleys,Or down the dewy forest alleys,I chased at morn the flying deer,With whom I hurled the hurrying spear,And heard the foemen’s bucklers rattle,And broke the heaving ranks of battle!And Bran, Sgeolan, and Lomair,Where are you with your long rough hair?You go not where the red deer feeds,Nor tear the foemen from their steeds.

S. PATRIC

Boast not, nor mourn with drooping headCompanions long accurst and dead,And hounds for centuries dust and air.

USHEEN

We galloped over the glossy sea:I know not if days passed or hours,And Niam sang continuallyDanaan songs, and their dewy showersOf pensive laughter, unhuman sound,Lulled weariness, and softly roundMy human sorrow her white arms wound.

We galloped; now a hornless deerPassed by us, chased by a phantom houndAll pearly white, save one red ear;And now a maiden rode like the windWith an apple of gold in her tossing hand;And a beautiful young man followed behindWith quenchless gaze and fluttering hair.

“Were these two born in the Danaan land,“Or have they breathed the mortal air?”

“Vex them no longer,” Niam said,And sighing bowed her gentle head,And sighing laid the pearly tipOf one long finger on my lip.

But now the moon like a white rose shoneIn the pale west, and the sun’s rim sank,And clouds arrayed their rank on rankAbout his fading crimson ball:The floor of Emen’s hosting hallWas not more level than the sea,As full of loving phantasy,And with low murmurs we rode on,Where many a trumpet-twisted shellThat in immortal silence sleepsDreaming of her own melting hues,Her golds, her ambers, and her blues,Pierced with soft light the shallowing deeps.

But now a wandering land breeze cameAnd a far sound of feathery quires;It seemed to blow from the dying flame,They seemed to sing in the smouldering fires.The horse towards the music raced,Neighing along the lifeless waste;Like sooty fingers, many a treeRose ever out of the warm sea;And they were trembling ceaselessly,As though they all were beating time,Upon the centre of the sun,To that low laughing woodland rhyme.And, now our wandering hours were done,We cantered to the shore, and knewThe reason of the trembling trees:Round every branch the song-birds flew,Or clung thereon like swarming bees;While round the shore a million stoodLike drops of frozen rainbow light,And pondered in a soft vain moodUpon their shadows in the tide,And told the purple deeps their pride,And murmured snatches of delight;And on the shores were many boatsWith bending sterns and bending bows.

And carven figures on their prowsOf bitterns, and fish-eating stoats,And swans with their exultant throats:And where the wood and waters meetWe tied the horse in a leafy clump,And Niam blew three merry notesOut of a little silver trump;And then an answering whispering flewOver the bare and woody land,A whisper of impetuous feet,And ever nearer, nearer grew;And from the woods rushed out a bandOf men and maidens, hand in hand,And singing, singing altogether;Their brows were white as fragrant milk,Their cloaks made out of yellow silk,And trimmed with many a crimson feather:And when they saw the cloak I woreWas dim with mire of a mortal shore,They fingered it and gazed on meAnd laughed like murmurs of the sea;But Niam with a swift distressBid them away and hold their peace;And when they heard her voice they ranAnd knelt them, every maid and manAnd kissed, as they would never cease,Her pearl-pale hand and the hem of her dress.She bade them bring us to the hallWhere Aengus dreams, from sun to sun,A Druid dream of the end of daysWhen the stars are to wane and the world be done.

They led us by long and shadowy waysWhere drops of dew in myriads fall,And tangled creepers every hourBlossom in some new crimson flower,And once a sudden laughter sprangFrom all their lips, and once they sangTogether, while the dark woods rang,And made in all their distant parts,With boom of bees in honey marts,A rumour of delighted hearts.And once a maiden by my sideGave me a harp, and bid me sing,And touch the laughing silver string;But when I sang of human joyA sorrow wrapped each merry face,And, Patric! by your beard, they wept,Until one came, a tearful boy;“A sadder creature never stept“Than this strange human bard,” he cried;And caught the silver harp away,And, weeping over the white strings, hurledIt down in a leaf-hid, hollow placeThat kept dim waters from the sky;And each one said, with a long, long sigh,“O saddest harp in all the world,“Sleep there till the moon and the stars die!”

And now still sad we came to whereA beautiful young man dreamed withinA house of wattles, clay, and skin;One hand upheld his beardless chin,And one a sceptre flashing outWild flames of red and gold and blue,Like to a merry wandering routOf dancers leaping in the air;And men and maidens knelt them thereAnd showed their eyes with teardrops dim,And with low murmurs prayed to him,And kissed the sceptre with red lips,And touched it with their finger-tips.

He held that flashing sceptre up.“Joy drowns the twilight in the dew,“And fills with stars night’s purple cup,“And wakes the sluggard seeds of corn,“And stirs the young kid’s budding horn.“And makes the infant ferns unwrap,“And for the peewit paints his cap,“And rolls along the unwieldy sun,“And makes the little planets run:“And if joy were not on the earth,“There were an end of change and birth,“And earth and heaven and hell would die,“And in some gloomy barrow lie“Folded like a frozen fly;“Then mock at Death and Time with glances“And wavering arms and wandering dances.

“Men’s hearts of old were drops of flame“That from the saffron morning came,“Or drops of silver joy that fell“Out of the moon’s pale twisted shell;“But now hearts cry that hearts are slaves,“And toss and turn in narrow caves;“But here there is nor law nor rule,“Nor have hands held a weary tool;“And here there is nor Change nor Death,“But only kind and merry breath,“For joy is God and God is joy.”With one long glance on maid and boyAnd the pale blossom of the moon,He fell into a Druid swoon.

And in a wild and sudden danceWe mocked at Time and Fate and ChanceAnd swept out of the wattled hallAnd came to where the dewdrops fallAmong the foamdrops of the sea,And there we hushed the revelry;And, gathering on our brows a frown,Bent all our swaying bodies down,And to the waves that glimmer byThat sloping green De Danaan sodSang “God is joy and joy is God.“And things that have grown sad are wicked,“And things that fear the dawn of the morrow“Or the gray wandering osprey Sorrow.”

We danced to where in the winding thicketThe damask roses, bloom on bloom,Like crimson meteors hang in the gloom,And bending over them softly said,Bending over them in the dance,With a swift and friendly glanceFrom dewy eyes: “Upon the dead“Fall the leaves of other roses,“On the dead dim earth encloses:“But never, never on our graves,“Heaped beside the glimmering waves,“Shall fall the leaves of damask roses.“For neither Death nor Change comes near us,“And all listless hours fear us,“And we fear no dawning morrow,“Nor the gray wandering osprey Sorrow.”

The dance wound through the windless woods;The ever-summered solitudes;Until the tossing arms grew stillUpon the woody central hill;And, gathered in a panting band,We flung on high each waving hand,And sang unto the starry broods:In our raised eyes there flashed a glowOf milky brightness to and froAs thus our song arose: “You stars,“Across your wandering ruby cars“Shake the loose reins: you slaves of God“He rules you with an iron rod,“He holds you with an iron bond,“Each one woven to the other,“Each one woven to his brother“Like bubbles in a frozen pond;“But we in a lonely land abide“Unchainable as the dim tide,“With hearts that know nor law nor rule,“And hands that hold no wearisome tool“Folded in love that fears no morrow,“Nor the gray wandering osprey Sorrow.”

O Patric! for a hundred yearsI chased upon that woody shoreThe deer, the badger, and the boar.O Patric! for a hundred yearsAt evening on the glimmering sands,Beside the piled-up hunting spears,These now outworn and withered handsWrestled among the island bands.O Patric! for a hundred yearsWe went a-fishing in long boatsWith bending sterns and bending bows,And carven figures on their prowsOf bitterns and fish-eating stoats.O Patric! for a hundred yearsThe gentle Niam was my wife;But now two things devour my life;The things that most of all I hate;Fasting and prayers.

S. PATRIC

Tell on.

USHEEN

Yes, yes,For these were ancient Usheen’s fateLoosed long ago from heaven’s gate,For his last days to lie in wait.

When one day by the tide I stood,I found in that forgetfulnessOf dreamy foam a staff of woodFrom some dead warrior’s broken lance:I turned it in my hands; the stainsOf war were on it, and I wept,Remembering how the Fenians steptAlong the blood-bedabbled plains,Equal to good or grievous chance:Thereon young Niam softly cameAnd caught my hands, but spake no wordSave only many times my name,In murmurs, like a frighted bird.We passed by woods, and lawns of clover,And found the horse and bridled him,For we knew well the old was over.I heard one say “His eyes grow dim“With all the ancient sorrow of men”;And wrapped in dreams rode out againWith hoofs of the pale findrinnyOver the glimmering purple sea:Under the golden evening light.The immortals moved among the fountainsBy rivers and the woods’ old night;Some danced like shadows on the mountains,Some wandered ever hand in hand,Or sat in dreams on the pale strand;Each forehead like an obscure starBent down above each hooked knee:And sang, and with a dreamy gazeWatched where the sun in a saffron blazeWas slumbering half in the sea ways;And, as they sang, the painted birdsKept time with their bright wings and feet;Like drops of honey came their words,But fainter than a young lamb’s bleat.

“An old man stirs the fire to a blaze,“In the house of a child, of a friend, of a brother“He has over-lingered his welcome; the days,“Grown desolate, whisper and sigh to each other;“He hears the storm in the chimney above,“And bends to the fire and shakes with the cold,“While his heart still dreams of battle and love,“And the cry of the hounds on the hills of old.

“But we are apart in the grassy places,“Where care cannot trouble the least of our days,“Or the softness of youth be gone from our faces,“Or love’s first tenderness die in our gaze.“The hare grows old as she plays in the sun“And gazes around her with eyes of brightness;“Before the swift things that she dreamed of were done“She limps along in an aged whiteness;“A storm of birds in the Asian trees“Like tulips in the air a-winging,“And the gentle waves of the summer seas,“That raise their heads and wander singing.“Must murmur at last ‘Unjust, unjust’;“And ‘My speed is a weariness,’ falters the mouse“And the kingfisher turns to a ball of dust,“And the roof falls in of his tunnelled house.

“But the love-dew dims our eyes till the day“When God shall come from the sea with a sigh“And bid the stars drop down from the sky,“And the moon like a pale rose wither away.”

BOOK II

Now, man of croziers, shadows called our namesAnd then away, away, like whirling flames;And now fled by, mist-covered, without sound,The youth and lady and the deer and hound;“Gaze no more on the phantoms,” Niam said,And kissed my eyes, and, swaying her bright headAnd her bright body, sang of faery and manBefore God was or my old line began;Wars shadowy, vast, exultant; faeries of oldWho wedded men with rings of Druid gold;And how those lovers never turn their eyesUpon the life that fades and flickers and dies,But love and kiss on dim shores far awayRolled round with music of the sighing spray:But sang no more, as when, like a brown beeThat has drunk full, she crossed the misty seaWith me in her white arms a hundred yearsBefore this day; for now the fall of tearsTroubled her song.

I do not know if daysOr hours passed by, yet hold the morning raysShone many times among the glimmering flowersWoven into her hair, before dark towersRose in the darkness, and the white surf gleamedAbout them; and the horse of faery screamedAnd shivered, knowing the Isle of many Fears,Nor ceased until white Niam stroked his earsAnd named him by sweet names.

A foaming tideWhitened afar with surge, fan-formed and wide,Burst from a great door marred by many a blowFrom mace and sword and pole-axe, long agoWhen gods and giants warred. We rode betweenThe seaweed-covered pillars, and the greenAnd surging phosphorus alone gave lightOn our dark pathway, till a countless flightOf moonlit steps glimmered; and left and rightDark statues glimmered over the pale tideUpon dark thrones. Between the lids of oneThe imaged meteors had flashed and runAnd had disported in the stilly jet,And the fixed stars had dawned and shone and set,Since God made Time and Death and Sleep: the otherStretched his long arm to where, a misty smother,The stream churned, churned, and churned — his lips apart,As though he told his never slumbering heartOf every foamdrop on its misty way:Tying the horse to his vast foot that layHalf in the unvesselled sea, we climbed the stairsAnd climbed so long, I thought the last steps wereHung from the morning star; when these mild wordsFanned the delighted air like wings of birds:“My brothers spring out of their beds at morn,“A-murmur like young partridge: with loud horn“They chase the noontide deer;“And when the dew-drowned stars hang in the air“Look to long fishing-lines, or point and pare“An ash-wood hunting spear.

“O sigh, O fluttering sigh, be kind to me;“Flutter along the froth lips of the sea,“And shores, the froth lips wet:“And stay a little while, and bid them weep:“Ah, touch their blue-veined eyelids if they sleep,“And shake their coverlet.

“When you have told how I weep endlessly,“Flutter along the froth lips of the sea“And home to me again,“And in the shadow of my hair lie hid,“And tell me how you came to one unbid,“The saddest of all men.”

A maiden with soft eyes like funeral tapers,And face that seemed wrought out of moonlit vapours,And a sad mouth, that fear made tremulousAs any ruddy moth, looked down on us;And she with a wave-rusted chain was tiedTo two old eagles, full of ancient pride,That with dim eyeballs stood on either side.Few feathers were on their dishevelled wings,For their dim minds were with the ancient things.

“I bring deliverance,” pearl-pale Niam said.

“Neither the living, nor the unlabouring dead,“Nor the high gods who never lived, may fight“My enemy and hope; demons for fright“Jabber and scream about him in the night;“For he is strong and crafty as the seas“That sprang under the Seven Hazel Trees,“And I must needs endure and hate and weep,“Until the gods and demons drop asleep,“Hearing Aed touch the mournful strings of gold.”

“Is he so dreadful?”

“Be not over bold,“But flee while you may flee from him.”

Then I:“This demon shall be pierced and drop and die,“And his loose bulk be thrown in the loud tide.”

“Flee from him,” pearl-pale Niam weeping cried,“For all men flee the demons”; but moved notMy angry, king remembering soul one jot;There was no mightier soul of Heber’s line;Now it is old and mouse-like: for a signI burst the chain: still earless, nerveless, blind,Wrapped in the things of the unhuman mind,In some dim memory or ancient moodStill earless, nerveless, blind, the eagles stood.

And then we climbed the stair to a high door;A hundred horsemen on the basalt floorBeneath had paced content: we held our wayAnd stood within: clothed in a misty rayI saw a foam-white seagull drift and floatUnder the roof, and with a straining throatShouted, and hailed him: he hung there a star,For no man’s cry shall ever mount so far;Not even your God could have thrown down that hall;Stabling His unloosed lightnings in their stall,He had sat down and sighed with cumbered heart,As though His hour were come.

We sought the partThat was most distant from the door; green slimeMade the way slippery, and time on timeShowed prints of sea-born scales, while down through itThe captive’s journeys to and fro were writLike a small river, and, where feet touched, cameA momentary gleam of phosphorus flame.Under the deepest shadows of the hallThat maiden found a ring hung on the wall,And in the ring a torch, and with its flareMaking a world about her in the air,Passed under a dim doorway, out of sightAnd came again, holding a second lightBurning between her fingers, and in mineLaid it and sighed: I held a sword whose shineNo centuries could dim: and a word ranThereon in Ogham letters, “Mananan”;That sea god’s name, who in a deep contentSprang dripping, and, with captive demons sentOut of the seven-fold seas, built the dark hallRooted in foam and clouds, and cried to allThe mightier masters of a mightier race;And at his cry there came no milk-pale faceUnder a crown of thorns and dark with blood,But only exultant faces.

Niam stoodWith bowed head, trembling when the white blade shone,But she whose hours of tenderness were goneHad neither hope nor fear. I bade them hideUnder the shadows till the tumults diedOf the loud crashing and earth shaking fight,Lest they should look upon some dreadful sight;And thrust the torch between the slimy flags.A dome made out of endless carven jags,Where shadowy face flowed into shadowy face,Looked down on me; and in the self-same placeI waited hour by hour, and the high dome,Windowless, pillarless, multitudinous homeOf faces, waited; and the leisured gazeWas loaded with the memory of daysBuried and mighty. When through the great doorThe dawn came in, and glimmered on the floorWith a pale light, I journeyed round the hallAnd found a door deep sunken in the wall,The least of doors; beyond on a dim plainA little runnel made a bubbling strain,And on the runnel’s stony and bare edgeA husky demon dry as a withered sedgeSwayed, crooning to himself an unknown tongue:In a sad revelry he sang and swungBacchant and mournful, passing to and froHis hand along the runnel’s side, as thoughThe flowers still grew there: far on the sea’s wasteShaking and waving, vapour vapour chased,While high frail cloudlets, fed with a green light,Like drifts of leaves, immovable and bright,Hung in the passionate dawn. He slowly turned:A demon’s leisure: eyes, first white, now burnedLike wings of kingfishers; and he aroseBarking. We trampled up and down with blowsOf sword and brazen battle-axe, while dayGave to high noon and noon to night gave way;And when at withering of the sun he knewThe Druid sword of Mananan, he grewTo many shapes; I lunged at the smooth throatOf a great eel; it changed, and I but smoteA fir-tree roaring in its leafless top;I held a dripping corpse, with livid chopAnd sunken shape, against my face and breast,When I tore down the tree; but when the westSurged up in plumy fire, I lunged and draveThrough heart and spine, and cast him in the wave,Lest Niam shudder.

Full of hope and dreadThose two came carrying wine and meat and bread,And healed my wounds with unguents out of flowersThat feed white moths by some De Danaan shrine;Then in that hall, lit by the dim sea shine,We lay on skins of otters, and drank wine,Brewed by the sea-gods, from huge cups that layUpon the lips of sea-gods in their day;And then on heaped-up skins of otters slept.But when the sun once more in saffron stept,Rolling his flagrant wheel out of the deep,We sang the loves and angers without sleep,And all the exultant labours of the strong:

But now the lying clerics murder songWith barren words and flatteries of the weak.In what land do the powerless turn the beakOf ravening Sorrow, or the hand of Wrath?For all your croziers, they have left the pathAnd wander in the storms and clinging snows,Hopeless for ever: ancient Usheen knows,For he is weak and poor and blind, and liesOn the anvil of the world.

S. PATRIC

Be still: the skiesAre choked with thunder, lightning, and fierce wind,For God has heard, and speaks His angry mind;Go cast your body on the stones and pray,For He has wrought midnight and dawn and day.

USHEEN

Saint, do you weep? I hear amid the thunderThe Fenian horses; armour torn asunder;Laughter and cries; the armies clash and shock;All is done now; I see the ravens flock;Ah, cease, you mournful, laughing Fenian horn!

We feasted for three days. On the fourth mornI found, dropping sea foam on the wide stair,And hung with slime, and whispering in his hair,That demon dull and unsubduable;And once more to a day-long battle fell,And at the sundown threw him in the surge,To lie until the fourth morn saw emergeHis new healed shape: and for a hundred yearsSo warred, so feasted, with nor dreams nor fears,Nor languor nor fatigue: and endless feast,An endless war.

The hundred years had ceased;I stood upon the stair: the surges boreA beech bough to me, and my heart grew sore,Remembering how I had stood by white-haired FinnUnder a beech at Emen and heard the thinOutcry of bats.

And then young Niam cameHolding that horse, and sadly called my name;I mounted, and we passed over the loneAnd drifting grayness, while this monotone,Surly and distant, mixed inseparablyInto the clangour of the wind and sea.

“I hear my soul drop down into decay,“And Mananan’s dark tower, stone by stone,“Gather sea slime and fall the seaward way,“And the moon goad the waters night and day,“That all be overthrown.

“But till the moon has taken all, I wage“War on the mightiest men under the skies,“And they have fallen or fled, age after age:“Light is man’s love, and lighter is man’s rage;“His purpose drifts and dies.”

And then lost Niam murmured, “Love, we go“To the Island of Forgetfulness, for lo!“The Islands of Dancing and of Victories“Are empty of all power.”

“And which of these“Is the Island of Content?”

“None know,” she said;And on my bosom laid her weeping head.

BOOK III

Fled foam underneath us, and around us, a wandering and milky smoke,High as the saddle girth, covering away from our glances the tide;And those that fled, and that followed, from the foam-pale distance broke;The immortal desire of immortals we saw in their faces, and sighed.

I mused on the chase with the Fenians, and Bran, Sgeolan, Lomair,And never a song sang Niam, and over my finger-tipsCame now the sliding of tears and sweeping of mist-cold hair,And now the warmth of sighs, and after the quiver of lips.

Were we days long or hours long in riding, when rolled in a grisly peace,An isle lay level before us, with dripping hazel and oak?And we stood on a sea’s edge we saw not; for whiter than new-washed fleeceFled foam underneath us, and round us, a wandering and milky smoke.

And we rode on the plains of the sea’s edge; the sea’s edge barren and gray,Gray sand on the green of the grasses and over the dripping trees,Dripping and doubling landward, as though they would hasten awayLike an army of old men longing for rest from the moan of the seas.

But the trees grew taller and closer, immense in their wrinkling bark;Dropping; a murmurous dropping; old silence and that one sound;For no live creatures lived there, no weasels moved in the dark:Long sighs arose in our spirits, beneath us bubbled the ground.

And the ears of the horse went sinking away in the hollow night,For, as drift from a sailor slow drowning the gleams of the world and the sun,Ceased on our hands and our faces, on hazel and oak leaf, the light,And the stars were blotted above us, and the whole of the world was one.

Till the horse gave a whinny; for, cumbrous with stems of the hazel and oak,A valley flowed down from his hoofs, and there in the long grass lay,Under the starlight and shadow, a monstrous slumbering folk,Their naked and gleaming bodies poured out and heaped in the way.

And by them were arrow and war-axe, arrow and shield and blade;And dew-blanched horns, in whose hollow a child of three years oldCould sleep on a couch of rushes, and all inwrought and inlaid,And more comely than man can make them with bronze and silver and gold.

And each of the huge white creatures was huger than fourscore men;The tops of their ears were feathered, their hands were the claws of birds,And, shaking the plumes of the grasses and the leaves of the mural glen,The breathing came from those bodies, long-warless, grown whiter than curds.

The wood was so spacious above them, that He who had stars for His flocksCould fondle the leaves with His fingers, nor go from His dew-cumbered skies;So long were they sleeping, the owls had builded their nests in their locks,Filling the fibrous dimness with long generations of eyes.

And over the limbs and the valley the slow owls wandered and came,Now in a place of star-fire, and now in a shadow place wide;And the chief of the huge white creatures, his knees in the soft star-flame,Lay loose in a place of shadow: we drew the reins by his side.

Golden the nails of his bird-claws, flung loosely along the dim ground;In one was a branch soft-shining, with bells more many than sighs,In midst of an old man’s bosom; owls ruffling and pacing around,Sidled their bodies against him, filling the shade with their eyes.

And my gaze was thronged with the sleepers; no, not since the world began,In realms where the handsome were many, nor in glamours by demons flung,Have faces alive with such beauty been known to the salt eye of man,Yet weary with passions that faded when the seven-fold seas were young.

And I gazed on the bell-branch, sleep’s forebear, far sung by the Sennachies.I saw how those slumberers, grown weary, there camping in grasses deep,Of wars with the wide world and pacing the shores of the wandering seas,Laid hands on the bell-branch and swayed it, and fed of unhuman sleep.

Snatching the horn of Niam, I blew a lingering note;Came sound from those monstrous sleepers, a sound like the stirring of flies.He, shaking the fold of his lips, and heaving the pillar of his throat,Watched me with mournful wonder out of the wells of his eyes.

I cried, “Come out of the shadow, king of the nails of gold!“And tell of your goodly household and the goodly works of your hands,“That we may muse in the starlight and talk of the battles of old;“Your questioner, Usheen, is worthy, he comes from the Fenian lands.”

Half open his eyes were, and held me, dull with the smoke of their dreams;His lips moved slowly in answer, no answer out of them came;Then he swayed in his fingers the bell-branch, slow dropping a sound in faint streamsSofter than snow-flakes in April and piercing the marrow like flame.

Wrapt in the wave of that music, with weariness more than of earth,The moil of my centuries filled me; and gone like a sea-covered stoneWere the memories of the whole of my sorrow and the memories of the whole of my mirth,And a softness came from the starlight and filled me full to the bone.

In the roots of the grasses, the sorrels, I laid my body as low;And the pearl-pale Niam lay by me, her brow on the midst of my breast;And the horse was gone in the distance, and years after years ‘gan flow;Square leaves of the ivy moved over us, binding us down to our rest.

And, man of the many white croziers, a century there I forgot;How the fetlocks drip blood in the battle, when the fallen on fallen lie rolled;How the falconer follows the falcon in the weeds of the heron’s plot,And the names of the demons whose hammers made armour for Conhor of old.

And, man of the many white croziers, a century there I forgot;That the spear-shaft is made out of ashwood, the shield out of ozier and hide;How the hammers spring on the anvil, on the spearhead’s burning spot;How the slow, blue-eyed oxen of Finn low sadly at evening tide.

But in dreams, mild man of the croziers, driving the dust with their throngs,Moved round me, of seamen or landsmen, all who are winter tales;Came by me the kings of the Red Branch, with roaring of laughter and songs,Or moved as they moved once, love-making or piercing the tempest with sails.

Came Blanid, Mac Nessa, tall Fergus who feastward of old time slunk,Cook Barach, the traitor; and warward, the spittle on his beard never dry,Dark Balor, as old as a forest, car borne, his mighty head sunkHelpless, men lifting the lids of his weary and death-making eye.

And by me, in soft red raiment, the Fenians moved in loud streams,And Grania, walking and smiling, sewed with her needle of bone,So lived I and lived not, so wrought I and wrought not, with creatures of dreams,In a long iron sleep, as a fish in the water goes dumb as a stone.

At times our slumber was lightened. When the sun was on silver or gold;When brushed with the wings of the owls, in the dimness they love going by;When a glow-worm was green on a grass leaf, lured from his lair in the mould;Half wakening, we lifted our eyelids, and gazed on the grass with a sigh.

So watched I when, man of the croziers, at the heel of a century fell,Weak, in the midst of the meadow, from his miles in the midst of the air,A starling like them that forgathered ‘neath a moon waking white as a shell.When the Fenians made foray at morning with Bran, Sgeolan, Lomair.

I awoke: the strange horse without summons out of the distance ran,Thrusting his nose to my shoulder; he knew in his bosom deepThat once more moved in my bosom the ancient sadness of man,And that I would leave the immortals, their dimness, their dews dropping sleep.

O, had you seen beautiful Niam grow white as the waters are white,Lord of the croziers, you even had lifted your hands and wept:But, the bird in my fingers, I mounted, remembering alone that delightOf twilight and slumber were gone, and that hoofs impatiently stept.

I cried, “O Niam! O white one! if only a twelve-houred day,“I must gaze on the beard of Finn, and move where the old men and young“In the Fenians’ dwellings of wattle lean on the chessboards and play,“Ah, sweet to me now were even bald Conan’s slanderous tongue!

“Like me were some galley forsaken far off in Meridian isle.“Remembering its long-oared companions, sails turning to thread-bare rags;“No more to crawl on the seas with long oars mile after mile,“But to be amid shooting of flies and flowering of rushes and flags.”

Their motionless eyeballs of spirits grown mild with mysterious thoughtWatched her those seamless faces from the valley’s glimmering girth;As she murmured, “O wandering Usheen, the strength of the bell-branch is naught,“For there moves alive in your fingers the fluttering sadness of earth.

“Then go through the lands in the saddle and see what the mortals do,“And softly come to your Niam over the tops of the tide;“But weep for your Niam, O Usheen, weep; for if only your shoe“Brush lightly as haymouse earth’s pebbles, you will come no more to my side.

“O flaming lion of the world, O when will you turn to your rest?”“I saw from a distant saddle; from the earth she made her moan;“I would die like a small withered leaf in the autumn, for breast unto breast“We shall mingle no more, nor our gazes empty their sweetness lone.

“In the isles of the farthest seas where only the spirits come.“Were the winds less soft than the breath of a pigeon who sleeps on her nest,“Nor lost in the star-fires and odours the sound of the sea’s vague drum?“O flaming lion of the world, O when will you turn to your rest?”

The wailing grew distant; I rode by the woods of the wrinkling bark,Where ever is murmurous dropping, old silence and that one sound;For no live creatures live there, no weasels move in the dark;In a reverie forgetful of all things, over the bubbling ground.

And I rode by the plains of the sea’s edge, where all is barren and gray,Gray sands on the green of the grasses and over the dripping trees,Dripping and doubling landward, as though they would hasten away,Like an army of old men lounging for rest from the moan of the seas.

And the winds made the sands on the sea’s edge turning and turning go,As my mind made the names of the Fenians. Far from the hazel and oak,I rode away on the surges, where, high as the saddle bow,Fled foam underneath me, and round me, a wandering and milky smoke.

Long fled the foam-flakes around me, the winds fled out of the vast,Snatching the bird in secret; nor knew I, embosomed apart,When they froze the cloth on my body like armour riveted fast,For Remembrance, lifting her leanness, keened in the gates of my heart.

Till fattening the winds of the morning, an odour of new-mown hayCame, and my forehead fell low, and my tears like berries fell down;Later a sound came, half lost in the sound of a shore far away,From the great grass-barnacle calling, and later the shore-weeds brown.

If I were as I once was, the strong hoofs crushing the sand and the shells,Coming out of the sea as the dawn comes, a chaunt of love on my lips,Not coughing, my head on my knees, and praying, and wroth with the bells,I would leave no saint’s head on his body from Rachlin to Bera of ships.

Making way from the kindling surges, I rode on a bridle-pathMuch wondering to see upon all hands, of wattles and woodwork made,Your bell-mounted churches, and guardless the sacred cairn and the rath,And a small and a feeble populace stooping with mattock and spade.

Or weeding or ploughing with faces a-shining with much-toil wet;While in this place and that place, with bodies unglorious, their chieftains stood,Awaiting in patience the straw-death, croziered one, caught in your net:Went the laughter of scorn from my mouth like the roaring of wind in a wood.

And because I went by them so huge and so speedy with eyes so bright,Came after the hard gaze of youth, or an old man lifted his head:And I rode and I rode, and I cried out, “The Fenians hunt wolves in the night,So sleep thee by daytime.” A voice cried, “The Fenians a long time are dead.”

A whitebeard stood hushed on the pathway, the flesh of his face as dried grass,And in folds round his eyes and his mouth, he sad as a child without milk;And the dreams of the islands were gone, and I knew how men sorrow and pass,And their hound, and their horse, and their love, and their eyes that glimmer like silk.

And wrapping my face in my hair, I murmured, “In old age they ceased”;And my tears were larger than berries, and I murmured, “Where white clouds lie spread“On Crevroe or broad Knockfefin, with many of old they feast“On the floors of the gods.” He cried, “No, the gods a long time are dead.”

And lonely and longing for Niam, I shivered and turned me about,The heart in me longing to leap like a grasshopper into her heart;I turned and rode to the westward, and followed the sea’s old shoutTill I saw where Maive lies sleeping till starlight and midnight part.

And there at the foot of the mountain, two carried a sack full of sand,They bore it with staggering and sweating, but fell with their burden at length:Leaning down from the gem-studded saddle, I flung it five yards with my hand,With a sob for men waxing so weakly, a sob for the Fenian’s old strength.

The rest you have heard of, O croziered one; how, when divided the girth,I fell on the path, and the horse went away like a summer fly;And my years three hundred fell on me, and I rose, and walked on the earth,A creeping old man, full of sleep, with the spittle on his beard never dry.

How the men of the sand-sack showed me a church with its belfry in air;Sorry place, where for swing of the war-axe in my dim eyes the crozier gleams;What place have Caolte and Conan, and Bran, Sgeolan, Lomair?Speak, you too are old with your memories, an old man surrounded with dreams.

S. PATRIC

Where the flesh of the footsole clingeth on the burning stones is their place;Where the demons whip them with wires on the burning stones of wide hell,Watching the blessed ones move far off, and the smile on God’s face,Between them a gateway of brass, and the howl of the angels who fell.

USHEEN

Put the staff in my hands; for I go to the Fenians, O cleric, to chauntThe war-songs that roused them of old; they will rise, making clouds with their breathInnumerable, singing, exultant; the clay underneath them shall pant,And demons be broken in pieces, and trampled beneath them in death.

And demons afraid in their darkness; deep horror of eyes and of wings,Afraid their ears on the earth laid, shall listen and rise up and weep;Hearing the shaking of shields and the quiver of stretched bowstrings,Hearing hell loud with a murmur, as shouting and mocking we sweep.

We will tear out the flaming stones, and batter the gateway of brassAnd enter, and none sayeth “No” when there enters the strongly armed guest;Make clean as a broom cleans, and march on as oxen move over young grass;Then feast, making converse of wars, and of old wounds, and turn to our rest.

S. PATRIC

On the flaming stones, without refuge, the limbs of the Fenians are tost;None war on the masters of Hell, who could break up the world in their rage;But kneel and wear out the flags and pray for your soul that is lostThrough the demon love of its youth and its godless and passionate age.

USHEEN

Ah, me! to be shaken with coughing and broken with old age and pain,Without laughter, a show unto children, alone with remembrance and fear;All emptied of purple hours as a beggar’s cloak in the rain,As a hay-cock out on the flood, or a wolf sucked under a weir.

It were sad to gaze on the blessed and no man I loved of old there;I throw down the chain of small stones! when life in my body has ceased,I will go to Caolte, and Conan, and Bran, Sgeolan, Lomair,And dwell in the house of the Fenians, be they in flames or at feast.

THE SONG OF THE HAPPY SHEPHERD

The woods of Arcady are dead,And over is their antique joy;Of old the world on dreaming fed;Gray Truth is now her painted toy;Yet still she turns her restless head:But O, sick children of the world,Of all the many changing thingsIn dreary dancing past us whirled,To the cracked tune that Chronos sings,Words alone are certain good.Where are now the warring kings,Word be-mockers? — By the RoodWhere are now the warring kings?An idle word is now their glory,By the stammering schoolboy said,Reading some entangled story:The kings of the old time are fledThe wandering earth herself may beOnly a sudden flaming word,In clanging space a moment heard,Troubling the endless reverie.

Then nowise worship dusty deeds,Nor seek; for this is also sooth;To hunger fiercely after truth,Lest all thy toiling only breedsNew dreams, new dreams; there is no truthSaving in thine own heart. Seek, then,No learning from the starry men,Who follow with the optic glassThe whirling ways of stars that pass — Seek, then, for this is also sooth,No word of theirs — the cold star-baneHas cloven and rent their hearts in twain,And dead is all their human truth.Go gather by the humming-seaSome twisted, echo-harbouring shell,And to its lips thy story tell,And they thy comforters will be,Rewarding in melodious guile,Thy fretful words a little while,Till they shall singing fade in ruth,And die a pearly brotherhood;For words alone are certain good:Sing, then, for this is also sooth.

I must be gone: there is a graveWhere daffodil and lily wave,And I would please the hapless faun,Buried under the sleepy ground,With mirthful songs before the dawn.His shouting days with mirth were crowned;And still I dream he treads the lawn,Walking ghostly in the dew,Pierced by my glad singing through,My songs of old earth’s dreamy youth:But ah! she dreams not now; dream thou!For fair are poppies on the brow:Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.

THE SAD SHEPHERD

There was a man whom Sorrow named his friend,And he, of his high comrade Sorrow dreaming,Went walking with slow steps along the gleamingAnd humming sands, where windy surges wend:And he called loudly to the stars to bendFrom their pale thrones and comfort him, but theyAmong themselves laugh on and sing alway:And then the man whom Sorrow named his friendCried out, Dim sea, hear my most piteous story!The sea swept on and cried her old cry still,Rolling along in dreams from hill to hill;He fled the persecution of her gloryAnd, in a far-off, gentle valley stopping,Cried all his story to the dewdrops glistening,But naught they heard, for they are always listening,The dewdrops, for the sound of their own dropping.And then the man whom Sorrow named his friend,Sought once again the shore, and found a shell,And thought, I will my heavy story tellTill my own words, re-echoing, shall sendTheir sadness through a hollow, pearly heart;And my own tale again for me shall sing,And my own whispering words be comforting,And lo! my ancient burden may depart.Then he sang softly nigh the pearly rim;But the sad dweller by the sea-ways loneChanged all he sang to inarticulate moanAmong her wildering whirls, forgetting him.

THE CLOAK, THE BOAT, AND THE SHOES

“What do you make so fair and bright?”

“I make the cloak of Sorrow:“O, lovely to see in all men’s sight“Shall be the cloak of Sorrow,“In all men’s sight.”

“What do you build with sails for flight?”

“I build a boat for Sorrow,“O, swift on the seas all day and night“Saileth the rover Sorrow,“All day and night.”

“What do you weave with wool so white?

“I weave the shoes of Sorrow,“Soundless shall be the footfall light“In all men’s ears of Sorrow,“Sudden and light.”

ANASHUYA AND VIJAYA

A little Indian temple in the Golden Age. Around it a garden; around that the forest. ANASHUYA, the young priestess, kneeling within the temple.

ANASHUYA

Send peace on all the lands and flickering corn. — O, may tranquillity walk by his elbowWhen wandering in the forest, if he loveNo other. — Hear, and may the indolent flocksBe plentiful. — And if he love another,May panthers end him. — Hear, and load our kingWith wisdom hour by hour. — May we two stand,When we are dead, beyond the setting suns,A little from the other shades apart,With mingling hair, and play upon one lute.

VIJAYA [entering and throwing a lily at her]

Hail! hail, my Anashuya.

ANASHUYA

No: be still.I, priestess of this temple, offer upPrayers for the land.

VIJAYA

I will wait here, Amrita.

ANASHUYA

By mighty Brahma’s ever rustling robe,Who is Amrita? Sorrow of all sorrows!Another fills your mind.

VIJAYA

My mother’s name.

ANASHUYA [sings, coming out of the temple]

A sad, sad thought went by me slowly:Sigh, O you little stars! O, sigh and shake your blue apparel!The sad, sad thought has gone from me now wholly:Sing, O you little stars! O, sing and raise your rapturous carolTo mighty Brahma, he who made you many as the sands,And laid you on the gates of evening with his quiet hands.

[Sits down on the steps of the temple.]

Vijaya, I have brought my evening rice;The sun has laid his chin on the gray wood,Weary, with all his poppies gathered round him.

VIJAYA

The hour when Kama, full of sleepy laughter,Rises, and showers abroad his fragrant arrows,Piercing the twilight with their murmuring barbs.

ANASHUYA

See how the sacred old flamingoes come,Painting with shadow all the marble steps:Aged and wise, they seek their wonted perchesWithin the temple, devious walking, madeTo wander by their melancholy minds.Yon tall one eyes my supper; swiftly chase himFar, far away. I named him after you.He is a famous fisher; hour by hourHe ruffles with his bill the minnowed streams.Ah! there he snaps my rice. I told you so.Now cuff him off. He’s off! A kiss for you,Because you saved my rice. Have you no thanks?

VIJAYA [sings]

Sing you of her, O first few stars,Whom Brahma, touching with his finger, praises, for you holdThe van of wandering quiet; ere you be too calm and old,Sing, turning in your cars,Sing, till you raise your hands and sigh, and from your car heads peer,With all your whirling hair, and drop many an azure tear.

ANASHUYA

What know the pilots of the stars of tears?

VIJAYA

Their faces are all worn, and in their eyesFlashes the fire of sadness, for they seeThe icicles that famish all the north,Where men lie frozen in the glimmering snow;And in the flaming forests cower the lionAnd lioness, with all their whimpering cubs;And, ever pacing on the verge of things,The phantom, Beauty, in a mist of tears;While we alone have round us woven woods,And feel the softness of each other’s hand,Amrita, while —  —

ANASHUYA [going away from him]

Ah me, you love another,

[Bursting into tears.]

And may some dreadful ill befall her quick!

VIJAYA

I loved another; now I love no other.Among the mouldering of ancient woodsYou live, and on the village border she,With her old father the blind wood-cutter;I saw her standing in her door but now.

ANASHUYA

Vijaya, swear to love her never more,

VIJAYA

Ay, ay.

ANASHUYA

Swear by the parents of the gods,Dread oath, who dwell on sacred Himalay,On the far Golden Peak; enormous shapes,Who still were old when the great sea was youngOn their vast faces mystery and dreams;Their hair along the mountains rolled and filledFrom year to year by the unnumbered nestsOf aweless birds, and round their stirless feetThe joyous flocks of deer and antelope,Who never hear the unforgiving hound.Swear!

VIJAYA

 By the parents of the gods, I swear.

ANASHUYA [sings]

I have forgiven, O new star!Maybe you have not heard of us, you have come forth so newly,You hunter of the fields afar!Ah, you will know my loved one by his hunter’s arrows truly,Shoot on him shafts of quietness, that he may ever keepAn inner laughter, and may kiss his hands to me in sleep.

Farewell, Vijaya. Nay, no word, no word;I, priestess of this temple, offer upPrayers for the land.

[VIJAYA goes.]

O Brahma, guard in sleep