And beneath it fancies bright,
Wisdom and high thoughts are woven
And the musics of delight,
Though his temples too be fair Yet two horns are growing there Bursting forth to part asunder All the riches of his hair.
Faerie maidens he may meet
Fly the horns and cloven feet,
But, his sad brown eyes with wonder
Seeing-stay from their retreat.
IV. Victory
Roland is dead, Cuchulain's crest is low,
The battered war-rear wastes and turns to rust, And Helen's eyes and Iseult's lips are dust
And dust the shoulders and the breasts of snow.
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The faerie people from our woods are gone, No Dryads have I found in all our trees,
No Triton blows his horn about our seas
And Arthur sleeps far hence in Avalon.
The ancient songs they wither as the grass
And waste as doth a garment waxen old,
All poets have been fools who thought to mould
A monument more durable than brass.
For these decay: but not for that decays
The yearning, high, rebellious spirit of man
That never rested yet since life began
From striving with red Nature and her ways.
Now in the filth of war, the baresark shout
Of battle, it is vexed. And yet so oft
Out of the deeps, of old, it rose aloft
That they who watch the ages may not doubt.
Though often bruised, oft broken by the rod, Yet, like the phoenix, from each fiery bed Higher the stricken spirit lifts its head
And higher-till the beast become a god.
V. Irish Nocturne
Now the grey mist comes creeping up From the waste ocean's weedy strand And fills the valley, as a cup
If filled of evil drink in a wizard's hand;
And the trees fade out of sight, Like dreary ghosts unhealthily, Into the damp, pale night,
Till you almost think that a clearer eye could see Some shape come up of a demon seeking apart His meat, as Grendel sought in Harte
The thanes that sat by the wintry log-- Grendel or the shadowy mass
Of Balor, or the man with the face of clay, The grey, grey walker who used to pass Over the rock-arch nightly to his prey.
But here at the dumb, slow stream where the willows hang, With never a wind to blow the mists apart,
Bitter and bitter it is for thee. O my heart, Looking upon this land, where poets sang, Thus with the dreary shroud Unwholesome, over it spread,
And knowing the fog and the cloud
In her people's heart and head
Even as it lies for ever upon her coasts
Making them dim and dreamy lest her sons should ever arise
And remember all their boasts;
For I know that the colourless skies
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And the blurred horizons breed
Lonely desire and many words and brooding and never a deed.
VI. Spooks
Last night I dreamed that I was come again Unto the house where my beloved dwells After long years of wandering and pain.
And I stood out beneath the drenching rain
And all the street was bare, and black with night, But in my true love's house was warmth and light.
Yet I could not draw near nor enter in, And long I wondered if some secret sin Or old, unhappy anger held me fast;
Till suddenly it came into my head
That I was killed long since and lying dead-- Only a homeless wraith that way had passed.
So thus I found my true love's house again And stood unseen amid the winter night And the lamp burned within, a rosy light, And the wet street was shining in the rain.
VII. Apology
If men should ask, Despoina, why I tell
Of nothing glad nor noble in my verse
To lighten hearts beneath this present curse
And build a heaven of dreams in real hell,
Go you to them and speak among them thus: "There were no greater grief than to recall,
Down in the rotting grave where the lithe worms crawl,
Green fields above that smiled so sweet to us."
Is it good to tell old tales of Troynovant Or praises of dead heroes, tried and sage, Or sing the queens of unforgotten age, Brynhild and Maeve and virgin Bradamant?
How should I sing of them? Can it be good To think of glory now, when all is done, And all our labour underneath the sun
Has brought us this-and not the thing we would?
All these were rosy visions of the night, The loveliness and wisdom feigned of old. But now we wake. The East is pale and cold, No hope is in the dawn, and no delight.
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VIII. Ode for New Year's Day
Woe unto you, ye sons of pain that are this day in earth, Now cry for all your torment: now curse your hour of birth And the fathers who begat you to a portion nothing worth. And Thou, my own beloved, for as brave as ere thou art, Bow down thine head, Despoina, clasp thy pale arms over it,
Lie low with fast-closed eyelids, clenched teeth, enduring heart,
For sorrow on sorrow is coming wherein all flesh has part. The sky above is sickening, the clouds of God's hate cover it, Body and soul shall suffer beyond all word or thought,
Till the pain and noisy terror that these first years have wrought
Seem but the soft arising and prelude of the storm
That fiercer still and heavier with sharper lightnings fraught
Shall pour red wrath upon us over a world deform.
Thrice happy, O Despoina, were the men who were alive
In the great age and the golden age when still the cycle ran On upward curve and easily, for them both maid and man And beast and tree and spirit in the green earth could thrive. But now one age is ending, and God calls home the stars And looses the wheel of the ages and sends it spinning back Amid the death of nations, and points a downward track, And madness is come over us and great and little wars.
He has not left one valley, one isle of fresh and green Where old friends could forgather amid the howling wreck. It's vainly we are praying. We cannot, cannot check
The Power who slays and puts aside the beauty that has been.
It's truth they tell, Despoina, none hears the heart's complaining
For Nature will not pity, nor the red God lend an ear, Yet I too have been mad in the hour of bitter paining
And lifted up my voice to God, thinking that he could hear
The curse wherewith I cursed Him because the Good was dead. But lo! I am grown wiser, knowing that our own hearts
Have made a phantom called the Good, while a few years have sped
Over a little planet. And what should the great Lord know of it
Who tosses the dust of chaos and gives the suns their parts?
Hither and thither he moves them; for