To old men playing at cards

With a twinkling of ancient hands.

The bread and the wine had a doom,
For these were the host of the air.
He sat and played in a dream

Of her long dim hair.

He played with the merry old men
And thought not of evil chance,
Until one bore Bridget his bride
Away from the merry dance.

He bore her away in his arms,

The handsomest young man there,

And his neck and his breast and his arms Were drowned in her long dim hair.

And then, half-lying on the chair,
He knelt, prayed, 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 PITY OF LOVE.

A pity beyond all telling
Is hid in the heart of love;

The folk who are buying and selling,
The clouds on their journey above,
The cold wet winds ever blowing,
And the shadowy hazel grove,
Where mouse-gray waters are flowing,
Threaten the head that I love.

WHEN YOU ARE OLD.

When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once: and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

A FAERY SONG.1

From 'Poems.'

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;

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

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.

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 could not agree.

In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she laid a 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.

INTO THE TWILIGHT.

From 'The Wind Among the Reeds.'

Outworn heart, in a time outworn,

Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;
Laugh, heart, again in the gray twilight,
Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.

Your mother Eire is always young,
Dew ever shining and twilight gray;
Though hope fall from you and love decay,
Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.

Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill:
For there the mystical brotherhood
Of sun and moon and hollow and wood
And river and stream work out their will;

And God stands winding His lonely horn,
And time and the world are ever in flight;
And love is less kind than the gray twilight,
And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.

A DREAM OF A BLESSED SPIRIT.

All the heavy days are over;

Leave the body's colored pride
Underneath the grass and clover,
With the feet laid side by side.

One with her are mirth and duty;
Bear the gold-embroidered dress,
For she needs not her sad beauty,
To the scented oaken press.

Hers the kiss of Mother Mary,
The long hair is on her face;
Still she goes with footsteps wary,
Full of earth's old timid grace:

With white feet of angels seven
Her white feet go glimmering;

And above the deep of heaven,

Flame on flame and wing on wing.

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 laboring 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.