Kitabı oku: «The Collected Works in Verse and Prose of William Butler Yeats. Volume 1 of 8. Poems Lyrical and Narrative», sayfa 4

TO AN ISLE IN THE WATER

 
Shy one, shy one,
Shy one of my heart,
She moves in the firelight
Pensively apart.
 
 
She carries in the dishes,
And lays them in a row.
To an isle in the water
With her would I go.
 
 
She carries in the candles
And lights the curtained room,
Shy in the doorway
And shy in the gloom;
 
 
And shy as a rabbit,
Helpful and shy.
To an isle in the water
With her would I fly.
 

DOWN BY THE SALLEY GARDENS

 
Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;
But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.
 
 
In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.
 

THE MEDITATION OF THE OLD FISHERMAN

 
You waves, though you dance by my feet like children at play,
Though you glow and you glance, though you purr and you dart;
In the Junes that were warmer than these are, the waves were more gay,
When I was a boy with never a crack in my heart.
 
 
The herring are not in the tides as they were of old;
My sorrow! for many a creak gave the creel in the cart
That carried the take to Sligo town to be sold,
When I was a boy with never a crack in my heart.
 
 
And ah, you proud maiden, you are not so fair when his oar
Is heard on the water, as they were, the proud and apart,
Who paced in the eve by the nets on the pebbly shore,
When I was a boy with never a crack in my heart.
 

THE BALLAD OF FATHER O’HART

 
Good Father John O’Hart
In penal days rode out
To a shoneen who had free lands
And his own snipe and trout.
 
 
In trust took he John’s lands;
Sleiveens were all his race;
And he gave them as dowers to his daughters,
And they married beyond their place.
 
 
But Father John went up,
And Father John went down;
And he wore small holes in his shoes,
And he wore large holes in his gown.
 
 
All loved him, only the shoneen,
Whom the devils have by the hair,
From the wives, and the cats, and the children,
To the birds in the white of the air.
 
 
The birds, for he opened their cages
As he went up and down;
And he said with a smile, ‘Have peace now’;
And he went his way with a frown.
 
 
But if when any one died
Came keeners hoarser than rooks,
He bade them give over their keening;
For he was a man of books.
 
 
And these were the works of John,
When weeping score by score,
People came into Coloony;
For he’d died at ninety-four.
 
 
There was no human keening;
The birds from Knocknarea
And the world round Knocknashee
Came keening in that day.
 
 
The young birds and old birds
Came flying, heavy and sad;
Keening in from Tiraragh,
Keening from Ballinafad;
 
 
Keening from Inishmurray,
Nor stayed for bite or sup;
This way were all reproved
Who dig old customs up.
 

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 work was saltin’ herrings
The whole of the long day.
 
 
And sometimes from the saltin’ shed,
I scarce could drag my feet
Under the blessed moonlight,
Along the pebbly street.
 
 
I’d always been but weakly,
And my baby was just born;
A neighbour minded her by day,
I minded her till morn.
 
 
I lay upon my baby;
Ye little childer dear,
I looked on my cold baby
When the morn grew frosty and clear.
 
 
A weary woman sleeps so hard!
My man grew red and pale,
And gave me money, and bade me go
To my own place, Kinsale.
 
 
He drove me out and shut the door,
And gave his curse to me;
I went away in silence,
No neighbour could I see.
 
 
The windows and the doors were shut,
One star shone faint and green;
The little straws were turnin’ round
Across the bare boreen.
 
 
I went away in silence:
Beyond old Martin’s byre
I saw a kindly neighbour
Blowin’ her mornin’ fire.
 
 
She drew from me my story —
My money’s all used up,
And still, with pityin’, scornin’ eye,
She gives me bite and sup.
 
 
She says my man will surely come,
And fetch me home agin;
But always, as I’m movin’ round,
Without doors or within,
 
 
Pilin’ the wood or pilin’ the turf,
Or goin’ to the well,
I’m thinkin’ of my baby
And keenin’ to mysel’.
 
 
And sometimes I am sure she knows
When, openin’ wide His door,
God lights the stars, His candles,
And looks upon the poor.
 
 
So now, ye little childer,
Ye won’t fling stones at me;
But gather with your shinin’ looks
And pity Moll Magee.
 

THE BALLAD OF THE FOXHUNTER

 
‘Now lay me in a cushioned chair
And carry me, you four,
With cushions here and cushions there,
To see the world once more.
 
 
‘And some one from the stables bring
My Dermot dear and brown,
And lead him gently in a ring,
And gently up and down.
 
 
‘Now leave the chair upon the grass:
Bring hound and huntsman here,
And I on this strange road will pass,
Filled full of ancient cheer.’
 
 
His eyelids droop, his head falls low,
His old eyes cloud with dreams;
The sun upon all things that grow
Pours round in sleepy streams.
 
 
Brown Dermot treads upon the lawn,
And to the armchair goes,
And now the old man’s dreams are gone,
He smooths the long brown nose.
 
 
And now moves many a pleasant tongue
Upon his wasted hands,
For leading aged hounds and young
The huntsman near him stands.
 
 
‘My huntsman, Rody, blow the horn,
And make the hills reply.’
The huntsman loosens on the morn
A gay and wandering cry.
 
 
A fire is in the old man’s eyes,
His fingers move and sway,
And when the wandering music dies
They hear him feebly say,
 
 
‘My huntsman, Rody, blow the horn,
And make the hills reply.’
‘I cannot blow upon my horn,
I can but weep and sigh.’
 
 
The servants round his cushioned place
Are with new sorrow wrung;
And hounds are gazing on his face,
Both aged hounds and young.
 
 
One blind hound only lies apart
On the sun-smitten grass;
He holds deep commune with his heart:
The moments pass and pass;
 
 
The blind hound with a mournful din
Lifts slow his wintry head;
The servants bear the body in;
The hounds wail for the dead.
 

THE BALLAD OF FATHER GILLIGAN

 
The old priest Peter Gilligan
Was weary night and day;
For half his flock were in their beds,
Or under green sods lay.
 
 
Once, while he nodded on a chair,
At the moth-hour of eve,
Another poor man sent for him,
And he began to grieve.
 
 
‘I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace,
For people die and die’;
And after cried he, ‘God forgive!
My body spake, not I!’
 
 
He knelt, and leaning on the chair
He prayed and fell asleep;
And the moth-hour went from the fields,
And stars began to peep.
 
 
They slowly into millions grew,
And leaves shook in the wind;
And God covered the world with shade,
And whispered to mankind.
 
 
Upon the time of sparrow chirp
When the moths came once more,
The old priest Peter Gilligan
Stood upright on the floor.
 
 
‘Mavrone, mavrone! the man has died,
While I slept on the chair’;
He roused his horse out of its sleep,
And rode with little care.
 
 
He rode now as he never rode,
By rocky lane and fen;
The sick man’s wife opened the door:
‘Father! you come again!’
 
 
‘And is the poor man dead?’ he cried.
‘He died an hour ago.’
The old priest Peter Gilligan
In grief swayed to and fro.
 
 
‘When you were gone, he turned and died
As merry as a bird.’
The old priest Peter Gilligan
He knelt him at that word.
 
 
‘He who hath made the night of stars
For souls, who tire and bleed,
Sent one of His great angels down
To help me in my need.
 
 
‘He who is wrapped in purple robes,
With planets in His care,
Had pity on the least of things
Asleep upon a chair.’
 

THE LAMENTATION OF THE OLD PENSIONER

 
I had a chair at every hearth,
When no one turned to see,
With ‘Look at that old fellow there,
And who may he be?’
And therefore do I wander now,
And the fret lies on me.
 
 
The road-side trees keep murmuring:
Ah, wherefore murmur ye,
As in the old days long gone by,
Green oak and poplar tree?
The well-known faces are all gone
And the fret lies on me.
 

THE FIDDLER OF DOONEY

 
When I play on my fiddle in Dooney,
Folk dance like a wave of the sea;
My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,
My brother in Moharabuiee.
 
 
I passed my brother and cousin:
They read in their books of prayer;
I read in my book of songs
I bought at the Sligo fair.
 
 
When we come at the end of time,
To Peter sitting in state,
He will smile on the three old spirits,
But call me first through the gate;
 
 
For the good are always the merry,
Save by an evil chance,
And the merry love the fiddle
And the merry love to dance:
 
 
And when the folk there spy me,
They will all come up to me,
With ‘Here is the fiddler of Dooney!’
And dance like a wave of the sea.
 

THE DEDICATION TO A BOOK OF STORIES SELECTED FROM THE IRISH NOVELISTS

 
There was a green branch hung with many a bell
When her own people ruled in wave-worn Eire;
And from its murmuring greenness, calm of faery,
A Druid kindness, on all hearers fell.
 
 
It charmed away the merchant from his guile,
And turned the farmer’s memory from his cattle,
And hushed in sleep the roaring ranks of battle,
For all who heard it dreamed a little while.
 
 
Ah, Exiles, wandering over many seas,
Spinning at all times Eire’s good to-morrow!
Ah, worldwide Nation, always growing Sorrow!
I also bear a bell branch full of ease.
 
 
I tore it from green boughs winds tossed and hurled,
Green boughs of tossing always, weary, weary!
I tore it from the green boughs of old Eire,
The willow of the many-sorrowed world.
 
 
Ah, Exiles, wandering over many lands!
My bell branch murmurs: the gay bells bring laughter,
Leaping to shake a cobweb from the rafter;
The sad bells bow the forehead on the hands.
 
 
A honeyed ringing: under the new skies
They bring you memories of old village faces;
Cabins gone now, old well-sides, old dear places;
And men who loved the cause that never dies.
 

EARLY POEMS
II
THE ROSE

‘Sero te amavi, Pulchritudo tam antiqua et tam nova! Sero te amavi.’

S. Augustine.

To Lionel Johnson

EARLY POEMS: THE ROSE

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, gray, wood-nurtured, quiet-eyed,
Who cast round Fergus dreams, and ruin untold;
And thine own sadness, whereof stars, grown old
In dancing silver-sandalled on the sea,
Sing in their high and lonely melody.
Come near, that no more blinded by man’s fate,
I find under the boughs of love and hate,
In all poor foolish things that live a day,
Eternal beauty wandering on her way.
 
 
Come near, come near, come near – Ah, leave me still
A little space for the rose-breath to fill!
Lest I no more hear common things that crave;
The weak worm hiding down in its small cave,
The field mouse running by me in the grass,
And heavy mortal hopes that toil and pass;
But seek alone to hear the strange things said
By God to the bright hearts of those long dead,
And learn to chaunt a tongue men do not know.
Come near; I would, before my time to go,
Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways:
Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days.
 

FERGUS AND THE DRUID

FERGUS

 
The whole day have I followed in the rocks,
And you have changed and flowed from shape to shape.
First as a raven on whose ancient wings
Scarcely a feather lingered, then you seemed
A weasel moving on from stone to stone,
And now at last you wear a human shape,
A thin gray man half lost in gathering night.
 

DRUID

 
What would you, king of the proud Red Branch kings?
 

FERGUS

 
This would I say, most wise of living souls:
Young subtle Conchubar sat close by me
When I gave judgment, and his words were wise,
And what to me was burden without end
To him seemed easy, so I laid the crown
Upon his head to cast away my care.
 

DRUID

 
What would you, king of the proud Red Branch kings?
 

FERGUS

 
I feast amid my people on the hill,
And pace the woods, and drive my chariot wheels
In the white border of the murmuring sea;
And still I feel the crown upon my head.
 

DRUID

 
What would you, king of the proud Red Branch kings?
 

FERGUS

 
I’d put away the foolish might of a king,
But learn the dreaming wisdom that is yours.
 

DRUID

 
Look on my thin gray hair and hollow cheeks,
And on these hands that may not lift the sword,
This body trembling like a wind-blown reed.
No maiden loves me, no man seeks my help,
Because I be not of the things I dream.
 

FERGUS

 
A wild and foolish labourer is a king,
To do and do and do, and never dream.
 

DRUID

 
Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams;
Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.
 

FERGUS

 
I see my life go dripping like a stream
From change to change; I have been many things,
A green drop in the surge, a gleam of light
Upon a sword, a fir-tree on a hill,
An old slave grinding at a heavy quern,
A king sitting upon a chair of gold,
And all these things were wonderful and great;
But now I have grown nothing, being all,
And the whole world weighs down upon my heart:
Ah! Druid, Druid, how great webs of sorrow
Lay hidden in the small slate-coloured thing!
 

THE DEATH OF CUCHULAIN

 
A man came slowly from the setting sun,
To Forgail’s daughter, Emer, in her dun,
And found her dyeing cloth with subtle care,
And said, casting aside his draggled hair:
‘I am Aleel, the swineherd, whom you bid
Go dwell upon the sea cliffs, vapour-hid;
But now my years of watching are no more.’
 
 
Then Emer cast the web upon the floor,
And stretching out her arms, red with the dye,
Parted her lips with a loud sudden cry.
 
 
Looking on her, Aleel, the swineherd, said:
‘Not any god alive, nor mortal dead,
Has slain so mighty armies, so great kings,
Nor won the gold that now Cuchulain brings.’
 
 
‘Why do you tremble thus from feet to crown?’
 
 
Aleel, the swineherd, wept and cast him down
Upon the web-heaped floor, and thus his word:
‘With him is one sweet-throated like a bird,
And lovelier than the moon upon the sea;
He made for her an army cease to be.’
 
 
‘Who bade you tell these things?’ and then she cried
To those about, ‘Beat him with thongs of hide
And drive him from the door.’ And thus it was;
And where her son, Finmole, on the smooth grass
Was driving cattle, came she with swift feet,
And called out to him, ‘Son, it is not meet
That you stay idling here with flocks and herds.’
 
 
‘I have long waited, mother, for those words;
But wherefore now?’
 
 
‘There is a man to die;
You have the heaviest arm under the sky.’
 
 
‘My father dwells among the sea-worn bands,
And breaks the ridge of battle with his hands.’
 
 
‘Nay, you are taller than Cuchulain, son.’
 
 
‘He is the mightiest man in ship or dun.’
 
 
‘Nay, he is old and sad with many wars,
And weary of the crash of battle cars.’
 
 
‘I only ask what way my journey lies,
For God, who made you bitter, made you wise.’
 
 
‘The Red Branch kings a tireless banquet keep,
Where the sun falls into the Western deep.
Go there, and dwell on the green forest rim;
But tell alone your name and house to him
Whose blade compels, and bid them send you one
Who has a like vow from their triple dun.’
 
 
Between the lavish shelter of a wood
And the gray tide, the Red Branch multitude
Feasted, and with them old Cuchulain dwelt,
And his young dear one close beside him knelt,
And gazed upon the wisdom of his eyes,
More mournful than the depth of starry skies,
And pondered on the wonder of his days;
And all around the harp-string told his praise,
And Conchubar, the Red Branch king of kings,
With his own fingers touched the brazen strings.
At last Cuchulain spake, ‘A young man strays
Driving the deer along the woody ways.
I often hear him singing to and fro;
I often hear the sweet sound of his bow,
Seek out what man he is.’
 
 
One went and came.
‘He bade me let all know he gives his name
At the sword point, and bade me bring him one
Who had a like vow from our triple dun.’
 
 
‘I only of the Red Branch hosted now,’
Cuchulain cried, ‘have made and keep that vow.’
 
 
After short fighting in the leafy shade,
He spake to the young man, ‘Is there no maid
Who loves you, no white arms to wrap you round,
Or do you long for the dim sleepy ground,
That you come here to meet this ancient sword?’
 
 
‘The dooms of men are in God’s hidden hoard.’
 
 
‘Your head a while seemed like a woman’s head
That I loved once.’
 
 
Again the fighting sped,
But now the war rage in Cuchulain woke,
And through the other’s shield his long blade broke,
And pierced him.
 
 
‘Speak before your breath is done.’
 
 
‘I am Finmole, mighty Cuchulain’s son.’
 
 
‘I put you from your pain. I can no more.’
 
 
While day its burden on to evening bore,
With head bowed on his knees Cuchulain stayed;
Then Conchubar sent that sweet-throated maid,
And she, to win him, his gray hair caressed;
In vain her arms, in vain her soft white breast.
Then Conchubar, the subtlest of all men,
Ranking his Druids round him ten by ten,
Spake thus, ‘Cuchulain will dwell there and brood
For three days more in dreadful quietude,
And then arise, and raving slay us all.
Go, cast on him delusions magical,
That he may fight the waves of the loud sea.’
And ten by ten under a quicken tree,
The Druids chaunted, swaying in their hands
Tall wands of alder and white quicken wands.
 
 
In three days’ time, Cuchulain with a moan
Stood up, and came to the long sands alone:
For four days warred he with the bitter tide;
And the waves flowed above him, and he died.
 

THE ROSE OF THE WORLD

 
Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?
For these red lips, with all their mournful pride,
Mournful that no new wonder may betide,
Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam,
And Usna’s children died.
 
 
We and the labouring world are passing by:
Amid men’s souls, that waver and give place,
Like the pale waters in their wintry race,
Under the passing stars, foam of the sky,
Lives on this lonely face.
 
 
Bow down, archangels, in your dim abode:
Before you were, or any hearts to beat,
Weary and kind one lingered by His seat;
He made the world to be a grassy road
Before her wandering feet.
 

THE ROSE OF PEACE

 
If Michael, leader of God’s host
When Heaven and Hell are met,
Looked down on you from Heaven’s door-post
He would his deeds forget.
 
 
Brooding no more upon God’s wars
In his Divine homestead,
He would go weave out of the stars
A chaplet for your head.
 
 
And all folk seeing him bow down,
And white stars tell your praise,
Would come at last to God’s great town,
Led on by gentle ways;
 
 
And God would bid His warfare cease,
Saying all things were well;
And softly make a rosy peace,
A peace of Heaven with Hell.
 

THE ROSE OF BATTLE

 
Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World!
The tall thought-woven sails, that flap unfurled
Above the tide of hours, trouble the air,
And God’s bell buoyed to be the water’s care;
While hushed from fear, or loud with hope, a band
With blown, spray-dabbled hair gather at hand.
Turn if you may from battles never done,
I call, as they go by me one by one,
Danger no refuge holds, and war no peace,
For him who hears love sing and never cease,
Beside her clean-swept hearth, her quiet shade:
But gather all for whom no love hath made
A woven silence, or but came to cast
A song into the air, and singing past
To smile on the pale dawn; and gather you
Who have sought more than is in rain or dew
Or in the sun and moon, or on the earth,
Or sighs amid the wandering, starry mirth,
Or comes in laughter from the sea’s sad lips;
And wage God’s battles in the long gray ships.
The sad, the lonely, the insatiable,
To these Old Night shall all her mystery tell;
God’s bell has claimed them by the little cry
Of their sad hearts, that may not live nor die.
 
 
Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World!
You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled
Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring
The bell that calls us on; the sweet far thing.
Beauty grown sad with its eternity
Made you of us, and of the dim gray sea.
Our long ships loose thought-woven sails and wait,
For God has bid them share an equal fate;
And when at last defeated in His wars,
They have gone down under the same white stars,
We shall no longer hear the little cry
Of our sad hearts, that may not live nor die.
 

A FAERY SONG

Sung by the people of faery over Diarmuid and Grania, who lay in their bridal sleep under a Cromlech

 
We who are old, old and gay,
O so old!
Thousands of years, thousands of years,
If all were told:
 
 
Give to these children, new from the world,
Silence and love;
And the long dew-dropping hours of the night,
And the stars above:
 
 
Give to these children, new from the world,
Rest far from men.
Is anything better, anything better?
Tell us it then:
 
 
Us who are old, old and gay,
O so old!
Thousands of years, thousands of years,
If all were told.
 

THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE

 
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
 
 
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
 
 
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.