Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist, Are yielding; cords of all too weak ac count For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed. Ah! is Thy love indeed A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed, Suffering no flowers except its own to mount? Ah! must Designer infinite!— Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it? My freshness spent its wavering shower i' the dust; And now my heart is as a broken fount, Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever From the dank thoughts that shiver Upon the sighful branches of my mind. Such is; what is to be? The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind? I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds; Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds From the hid battlements of Eternity; Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then Round the half-glimpsed turrets slowly wash again. But not ere him who summoneth first have seen, enwound With glooming robes purpureal, cypresscrowned; His name I know, and what his trumpet saith. Whether man's heart or life it be which yields Thee harvest, must Thy harvest fields Be dunged with rotten death? Now of that long pursuit Comes on at hand the bruit; That Voice is round me like a bursting sea: "And is thy earth so marred, Shattered in shard on shard? Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Strange, piteous, futile thing! Wherefore should any set thee love apart? Seeing none but I makes much of naught" (He said), "And human love needs human meriting: How hast thou merited Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot? Alack, thou knowest not How little worthy of any love thou art! Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee, Save Me, save only Me? All which I took from thee I did but take, Not for thy harms, But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms. All which thy child's mistake Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home: Rise, clasp My hand, and come!" Halts by me that footfall: Is my gloom, after all, Shade of His hand, outstretched caress ingly ? "Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest, I am He Whom thou seekest! Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me." WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS 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 And evening full of the linnets' 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. From CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN One day in 1798, in a cottage close to Killala, Peter Gillane and his wife Bridget were busy with thoughts of the approaching wedding of their elder son Michael to Delia Cahel. The younger son, Patrick, a lad of twelve, saw an old woman wandering along the road, and watched her from the window. First she turned into the gap that went down to where Murteen and his sons were shearing their sheep. Patrick recalled a story of a strange woman that goes through the country whatever time there is war or trouble coming. Michael had just come in with Delia's marriage portion, a hundred pounds, and sent Patrick down to the town to see what might be causing the cheering they had heard, and Peter was glorying in the hundred pounds that Michael had brought home, when the poor old woman came to their own door. PETER GILLANE PERSONS MICHAEL GILLANE.-His son, going to be married DELIA CAHEL.-Engaged to MICHAEL THE POOR OLD WOMAN NEIGHBOURS SCENE: Interior of a cottage close to Killala, in 1798. MICHAEL. They're not done cheering yet. [He goes over to the door and stands there for a moment, putting up his hand to shade his eyes.] BRIDGET. Do you see anything? MICHAEL. I see an old woman coming up the path. BRIDGET. Who is it, I wonder? MICHAEL. I don't think it's one of the neighbours, but she has her cloak over her face. BRIDGET. Maybe it's the same woman Patrick saw a while ago. It might be some poor woman heard we were making ready for the wedding, and came to look for her share. PETER. I may as well put the money out of sight. There's no use leaving it out for every stranger to look at. [He goes over to a large box by the wall, opens it and puts the bag in, and fumbles with the lock.] MICHAEL. There she is, father! [An OLD WOMAN passes the window slowly. She looks at MICHAEL as she passes.] I'd sooner a stranger not to come to the house the night before the wedding. BRIDGET. Open the door, Michael; don't keep the poor woman waiting. [The OLD WOMAN comes in; MICHAEL stands aside to make way for her.] THE POOR OLD WOMAN. God save all here! PETER. God save you kindly. THE POOR OLD WOMAN. You have good shelter here. PETER. You are welcome to whatever shelter we have. BRIDGET. Sit down there by the fire and welcome. THE POOR OLD WOMAN [warming her hands]. There's a hard wind outside. MICHAEL watches her curiously from the door. PETER comes over to the table. PETER. Have you travelled far to-day? THE POOR OLD WOMAN. I have travelled far, very far; there are few have travelled so far as myself. own. PETER. It is a pity, indeed, for any person to have no place of their THE POOR OLD WOMAN. That is true for you indeed, and it is long I am on the road since I first went wandering. It is seldom I have any rest. BRIDGET. It is a wonder you are not worn out with so much wandering. THE POOR OLD WOMAN. Sometimes my feet are tired and my hands are quiet, but there is no quiet in my heart. When the people see me quiet, they think old age has come on me, and that all the stir has gone out of me. BRIDGET. What was it put you astray? THE POOR OLD WOMAN. Too many strangers in the house. BRIDGET. Indeed you look as if you had had your share of trouble. THE POOR OLD WOMAN. I have had trouble indeed. BRIDGET. What was it put the trouble on you? THE POOR OLD WOMAN. My land that was taken from me. PETER. Was it much land they took from you? THE POOR OLD WOMAN. My four beautiful green fields. PETER. [aside to BRIDGET]. Do you think could she be the Widow Casey that was put out of her holding at Kilglas a while ago? BRIDGET. She is not. I saw the Widow Casey one time at the market in Ballina, a stout, fresh woman. PETER [to OLD WOMAN]. Did you hear a noise of cheering, and you coming up the hill? THE POOR OLD WOMAN. I thought I heard the noise I used to hear when my friends came to visit me. [She begins singing half to herself] I will go cry with the woman, For yellow-haired Donough is dead; ΙΟ MICHAEL [coming from the door]. What is that you are singing, ma'am? THE POOR OLD WOMAN. Singing I am about a man I knew one time, yellow-haired Donough, that was hanged in Galway. [She goes on singing much louder] I am come to cry with you, woman, And building his barn on the hill O! we'd have pulled down the gallows MICHAEL. What was it brought him to his death? THE POOR OLD WOMAN. He died for love of me; many a man has died for love of me. PETER [aside to BRIDGET]. Her trouble has put her wits astray. MICHAEL. Is it long since that song was made? Is it long since he got his death? THE POOR OLD WOMAN. Not long, not long. But there were others that died for love of me a long time ago. MICHAEL. Were they neighbours of your own, ma'am? THE POOR OLD WOMAN. Come here beside me and I'll tell you about them. [MICHAEL sits down beside her at the hearth.] There was a red man of the O'Donells from the North, and a man of the O'Sullivans from the South, and there was one Brian that lost his life at Clontarf, by the sea, and there were a great many in the West, some that died hundreds of years ago, and there are some that will die to-morrow. MICHAEL. Is it in the West that men will die to-morrow? THE POOR OLD WOMAN. Come nearer, nearer to me. BRIDGET. Is she right, do you think? or is she a woman from the North? PETER. She doesn't know well what she's talking about, with the want and the trouble she has gone through. BRIDGET. The poor thing, we should treat her well. PETER. Give her a drink of milk and a bit of the oaten cake. BRIDGET. Maybe we should give her something along with that to bring her on her way-a few pence, or a shilling itself, and we with so much money in the house. PETER. Indeed, I'd not begrudge it to her if we had it to spare; but if we go running through what we have, we'll soon have to break the hundred pounds, and that would be a pity. BRIDGET. Shame on you, Peter. Give her the shilling and your blessing with it, or our own luck will go from us. PETER goes to the box and takes out a shilling. BRIDGET [to the OLD WOMAN]. Will you have a drink of milk? PETER [offering the shilling]. Here is something for you. THE POOR OLD WOMAN. That is not what I want. It is not silver I want. PETER. What is it you would be asking for? THE POOR OLD WOMAN. If anyone would give me help he must give me himself, he must give me all. [PETER goes over to the table, staring at the shilling in his hand in a bewildered way and stands whispering to BRIDGET.] MICHAEL. Have you no man of your own, ma'am? THE POOR OLD WOMAN. I have not. With all the lovers that brought me their love, I never set out the bed for any. MICHAEL. Are you lonely going the roads, ma'am? THE POOR OLD WOMAN. I have my thoughts and I have my hopes. MICHAEL. What hopes have you to hold to? THE POOR OLD WOMAN. The hope of getting my beautiful fields back again; the hope of putting the strangers out of my house. MICHAEL. What way will you do that, ma'am? THE POOR OLD WOMAN. I have good friends that will help me. They are gathering to help me now. I am not afraid. If they are put down to-day, they will get the upper hand to-morrow. [She gets up.] I must be going to meet my friends. They are coming to help me, and I must be there to welcome them. I must call the neighbours together to welcome them. MICHAEL. I will go with you. BRIDGET. It is not her friends you have to go and welcome, Michael; it is the girl coming into the house you have to welcome. You have plenty to do; it is food and drink you have to bring to the house. The woman that is coming is not coming with empty hands; you would not |