Identity

When, looking deeply in thy face,
I catch the undergleam of grace
That grows beneath the outward glance,
Long looking, lost as in a trance
Of long desires that fleet and meet
Around me like the fresh and sweet
White showers of rain which, vanishing,
'Neath heaven's blue arches whirl, in spring;
Suddenly then I seem to know
Of some new fountain's overflow
In grassy basins, with a sound
That leads my fancy, past all bound,
Into a region of retreat
From this my life's bewildered heat.
Oh if my soul might always draw
From those deep fountains full of awe,
The current of my days should rise
Unto the level of thine eyes!

Because I had loved so deeply,
Because I had loved so long,
God in His great compassion
Gave me the gift of song.

Because I have loved so vainly,
And sung with such faltering breath,
The Master in infinite mercy
Offers the boon of Death.

She is glad to receive your turquoise ring,
    Dear and dark-eyed Lover of mine!
I, to have given you everything:
    Beauty maddens the soul like Wine.

"She is proud to have held aloof her charms,
    Slender, dark-eyed Lover of mine!
But I, of the night you lay in my arms:
    Beauty maddens the sense like Wine!

"She triumphs to think that your heart is won,
    Stately, dark-eyed Lover of mine!
I had not a thought of myself, not one:
    Beauty maddens the brain like Wine!

"She will speak you softly, while skies are blue,
    Dear, deluded Lover of mine!
I would lose both body and soul for you:
    Beauty maddens the brain like Wine!

"While the ways are fair she will love you well,
    Dear, disdainful Lover of mine!
But I...

    I was playing with my hoop along the road
        Just where the bushes are, when, suddenly,
    There came a shout., I ran away and stowed
        Myself beneath a bush, and watched to see
    What made the noise, and then, around the bend,
        I saw a woman running.    She was old
    And wrinkle-faced, and had big teeth., The end
        Of her red shawl caught on a bush and rolled
    Right off her, and her hair fell down., Her face
        Was awful white, and both her eyes looked sick,
    And she was talking queer.    "O God of Grace!"
        Said she, "where is the child?" and flew back quick
    The way she came, and screamed, and shook her hands;
        ... Maybe she was a witch from foreign lands.

Hail to you, comrades, who have won,
Where the torn lines of battle run
By tattered town and ruined mead,
The honour that men give with pride
To those who, daffing death aside,
Have done the valorous deed.

And has the war, then, brought to birth,
As flowers that spring from western earth
At summons of the pelting rain,
The courage that can force its way,
And hold the shadowing wings at bay,
And smile at lingering pain?

And is it true that only now
Life lifts from her heroic brow
The smothering shroud of deadly peace,
And laughs to sniff the morning air,
And bids a thousand bonfires flare
The news of her release?

Hell’s throat may swallow down its lie,
For men knew how to live and die
And take the gifts of motley fate,

Tune - "Oran-gaoil."



I.

    Behold the hour, the boat arrive;
        Thou goest, thou darling of my heart!
    Sever'd from thee can I survive?
        But fate has will'd, and we must part.
    I'll often greet this surging swell,
        Yon distant isle will often hail:
    "E'en here I took the last farewell;
        There, latest mark'd her vanish'd sail."

II.

    Along the solitary shore
        While flitting sea-fowl round me cry,
    Across the rolling, dashing roar,
        I'll westward turn my wistful eye:
    Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say,
        Where now my Nancy's path may be!
    While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray,
        O tell me, does she muse on me?

Fair Prime of life! were it enough to gild
With ready sunbeams every straggling shower;
And, if an unexpected cloud should lower,
Swiftly thereon a rainbow arch to build
For Fancy's errands, then, from fields half-tilled
Gathering green weeds to mix with poppy flower,
Thee might thy Minions crown, and chant thy power,
Unpitied by the wise, all censure stilled.
Ah! show that worthier honours are thy due;
Fair Prime of life! arouse the deeper heart;
Confirm the Spirit glorying to pursue
Some path of steep ascent and lofty aim;
And, if there be a joy that slights the claim
Of grateful memory, bid that joy depart.

In Life's Red Sea with faith I plant my feet,
And wait the sound of that sustaining word
Which long ago the men of Israel heard,
When Pharaoh's host behind them, fierce and fleet,
Raged on, consuming with revengeful heat.
Why are the barrier waters still unstirred?--
That struggling faith may die of hope deferred?
Is God not sitting in His ancient seat?

The billows swirl above my trembling limbs,
And almost chill my anxious heart to doubt
And disbelief, long conquered and defied.
But tho' the music of my hopeful hymns
Is drowned by curses of the raging rout,
No voice yet bids th' opposing waves divide!

Vhen sommer drees shake fort deir leafs,
Ash maids shake out deir locks,
Und singen mit de rifulets,
Vitch ripplen round de rocks,
Und beople swarm land-outwards,
Und cities weary men,
Hans Breitmann rode de Belgier mark
For Spa in Les Ardennes.

Und vhen he came to Spadenland,
He found it fein und fair,
For dey pour him out de péké schnapps,
Dazu elixer rare;
Und mit a soldier’s inshdink
To find a shanse to shoot,
Mitout delay he fire afay
Right in de Grande Redoute.

De virst shot dat der Breitmann fired
He pring de peaches down,
For he hit de double zéro mit
A gold Napoleon.
Und ash he raked de shiners in,
He hummed a liddle doon:
“I kess I tont try dat again,”
Said he, dis afdernoon.

Boot vhen he coom...

A little bird woke singing in the night,
    Dreaming of coming day,
And piped, for very fulness of delight,
    His little roundelay.

Dreaming he heard the wood-lark's carol loud,
    Down calling to his mate,
Like silver rain out of a golden cloud,
    At morning's radiant gate.

And all for joy of his embowering woods,
    And dewy leaves he sung,--
The summer sunshine, and the summer floods
    By forest flowers o'erhung.

Thou shalt not hear those wild and sylvan notes
    When morn's full chorus pours
Rejoicing from a thousand feathered throats,
    And the lark sings and soars,

Oh poet of our glorious land so fair,
    Whose foot is at the door;
Even so my song shall melt into the air,
    And die and be no more.

Do not say my love was
A ring or a bracelet.
My love is a siege,
Is the daring and headstrong.
Who, searching sail out to their death.

Do not say my love was
A moon.
My love is a burst of sparks.

This life is jolly, O!
I envy no man's lot;
My eyes can much admire,
And still my heart crave not;
There's no true joy in gold,
It breeds desire for more;
Whatever wealth man has,
Desire can keep him poor.

This life is jolly, O!
Power has his fawning slaves,
But if he rests his mind,
Those wretches turn bold knaves.
Fame's field is full of flowers,
It dazzles as we pass,
But men who walk that field
Starve for the common grass.

This life is jolly, O!
Let others know they die,
Enough to know I live,
And make no question why;
I care not whence I came,
Nor whither I shall go;
Let others think of these,
This life is jolly, O!

I am afraid to think about my death,
When it shall be, and whether in great pain
I shall rise up and fight the air for breath
Or calmly wait the bursting of my brain.

I am no coward who could seek in fear
A folklore solace or sweet Indian tales:
I know dead men are deaf and cannot hear
The singing of a thousand nightingales.

I know dead men are blind and cannot see
The friend that shuts in horror their big eyes,
And they are witless--O I'd rather be
A living mouse than dead as a man dies.

If you are my friend...
Help me... to leave you
Or if you are my lover...
Help me... so I can be healed of you...
If I knew....
that the ocean is very deep... I would not have swam...
If I knew... how I would end,
I would not have began

I desire you...so teach me not to desire
teach me...
how to cut the roots of your love from the depths
teach me...
how tears may die in the eyes
and love may commit suicide

If you are prophet,
Cleanse me from this spell
Deliver me from this atheism...
Your love is like atheism... so purify me from this atheism

If you are strong...
Rescueme from this ocean
ForI don't know how to swim
The blue waves... in your eyes
drag me... to the depths
blue...
blue...
nothingbut t...

If all the troubles in the world
    Were traced back to their start,
We'd find not one in ten begun
    From want of willing heart.
But there's a sly, woe-working elf
    Who lurks about youth's brink,
And sure dismay he brings alway -
    The elf, 'I didn't think.'

He seems so sorry when he's caught;
    His mien is all contrite;
He so regrets the woe he wrought,
    And wants to make things right.
But wishes do not heal a wound
    Or weld a broken link;
The heart aches on, the link is gone,
    All through -'I didn't think.'

I half believe that ugly sprite,
    Bold, wicked, 'I don't care,'
In life's long run less harm has done
    Because he is so rare;
And one can be so stern with him,
    Can make the monster shrink;...

Portraits are to daily faces
As an evening west
To a fine, pedantic sunshine
In a satin vest.

Levommi il mio pensier in parte ov' era.

SOARING IN IMAGINATION TO HEAVEN, HE MEETS LAURA, AND IS HAPPY.


    Fond fancy raised me to the spot, where strays
She, whom I seek but find on earth no more:
There, fairer still and humbler than before,
I saw her, in the third heaven's blessèd maze.
She took me by the hand, and "Thou shalt trace,
If hope not errs," she said, "this happy shore:
I, I am she, thy breast with slights who tore,
And ere its evening closed my day's brief space.
What human heart conceives, my joys exceed;
Thee only I expect, and (what remain
Below) the charms, once objects of thy love."
Why ceased she? Ah! my captive hand why freed?
Such of her soft and hallow'd tones the chain,
From that delightful heaven my soul could sca...

The gentian and the bluebell so
Can change my calendar,
I know not how the year may go,
Or what the seasons are:
The months, in some mysterious wise,
Take their expression from her eyes.
The gentian speaks to memory
Of autumns long since gone,
When her blue eyes smiled up at me,
And heaven was flushed with dawn:
'T was autumn then and leaves were sere,
But in my heart 't was spring o' the year.
The bluebell says a message too
Of springs long passed away,
When in my eyes her eyes of blue
Gazed and 't was close of day:
Spring spread around her fragrant chart,
But it was autumn in my heart.