And she ran by me laughing in the wind, And I gave milk and fire, and she came in And made you hide the blessed crucifix.

FATHER HART

You fear because of her wild, pretty prattle;

She knows no better.

[To the CHILD] Child, how old are you? THE CHILD

When winter sleep is abroad my hair grows thin,

My feet unsteady. When the leaves awaken

My mother carries me in her golden arms. I will soon put on my womanhood and

marry

The spirits of the wood and water, but who can tell

When I was born for the first time? I think

I am much older than the eagle cock
That blinks and blinks on Ballygawley Hill,
And he is the oldest thing under the moon.
FATHER HART

She is of the faery people.

THE CHILD

I am Brig's daughter. I sent my messengers for milk and fire, And then I heard one call to me and came. [They all except MAIRE BRUIN gather about the priest for protection. MAIRE BRUIN stays on the settle in a stupor of terror. The CHILD takes primroses from the great bowl and begins to strew them between herself and the priest and about MAIRE BRUIN. During the following dialogue SHAWN BRUIN goes more than once to the brink of the primroses, but shrinks back to the others timidly.

FATHER HART

I will confront this mighty spirit alone. [They cling to him and hold him back.

THE CHILD [while she strews the primroses]

No one whose heart is heavy with human

tears

Can cross these little cressets of the wood.

FATHER HART

Be not afraid, the Father is with us,
And all the nine angelic hierarchies,
The Holy Martyrs and the Innocents,
The adoring Magi in their coats of mail,
And He who died and rose on the third
day,

And Mary with her seven times wounded heart.

[The CHILD ceases strewing the primroses, and kneels upon the settle beside MAIRE and puts her arms about her neck.

Cry, daughter, to the Angels and Saints.
THE CHILD

You shall go with me, newly-married bride,
And gaze upon a merrier multitude:
White-armed Nuala and Aengus of the
birds,

And Feacra of the hurtling foam, and him
Who is the ruler of the western host,
Finvarra, and their Land of Heart's Desire,
Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood,
But joy is wisdom, Time an endless song.
I kiss you and the world begins to fade.

And dance upon the mountains, are more light

Than dewdrops on the banners of the dawn.

MAIRE BRUIN

Then take my soul.

[SHAWN BRUIN goes over to her.

SHAWN BRUIN

Beloved, do not leave me! What will my life be if you go with her? Remember when I met you by the well And took your hand in mine and spoke of love.

MAIRE BRUIN

Dear face! Dear voice!

THE CHILD

Come, newly-married bride!
MAIRE BRUIN

I always loved her world - and yet - and yet

[Sinks into his arms.

White bird, white bird, come with me, little bird!

She calls my soul!

MAIRE BRUIN

THE CHILD

Come with me, little bird!

MAIRE BRUIN

I can hear songs and dancing!

SHAWN BRUIN

Stay with me!

MAIRE BRUIN

I think that I would stay - and yet and yet

And men and women leave old paths, for pride

Comes knocking with thin knuckles on the heart.

A VOICE [singing outside.] The wind blows out of the gates of the day, The wind blows over the lonely of heart, And the lonely of heart is withered away, While the faeries dance in a place apart, Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring, Tossing their milk-white arms in the air; For they hear the wind laugh and murmur and sing

Of a land where even the old are fair, And even the wise are merry of tongue; But I heard a reed of Coolaney say, When the wind has laughed and murmured and sung,

The lonely of heart is withered away!'

[The song is taken up by many voices, who sing loudly, as if in triumph. Some of the voices seem to come from within the house.

DAISY

[1893.]

WHERE the thistle lifts a purple crown
Six foot out of the turf,

And the harebell shakes on the windy hill-
O the breath of the distant surf!--

The hills look over on the South,

And southward dreams the sea;
And, with the sea-breeze hand in hand,
Came innocence and she.

Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry
Red for the gatherer springs,
Two children did we stray and talk
Wise, idle, childish things.

She listened with big-lipped surprise,
Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine:
Her skin was like a grape, whose veins
Run snow instead of wine.

She knew not those sweet words she spake,
Nor knew her own sweet way;
But there's never a bird so sweet a song
Thronged in whose throat that day!

Oh, there were flowers in Storrington
On the turf and on the spray;
But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills
Was the Daisy-flower that day!

Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face!

She gave me tokens three: —

A look, a word of her winsome mouth,
And a wild raspberry.

A berry red, a guileless look,

A still word, -strings of sand!
And yet they made my wild, wild heart
Fly down to her little hand.

For, standing artless as the air,

And candid as the skies,
She took the berries with her hand,
And the love with her sweet eyes.
The fairest things have fleetest end:
Their scent survives their close,
But the rose's scent is bitterness
To him that loved the rose!

She went her unremembering way,
She went, and left in me
The pang of all the partings gone,
And partings yet to be.

She left me marvelling why my soul
Was sad that she was glad;
At all the sadness in the sweet,
The sweetness in the sad.

Still, still I seemed to see her, still
Look up with soft replies,

And take the berries with her hand,
And the love with her lovely eyes.

Nothing begins, and nothing ends,
That is not paid with moan;
For we are born in others' pain,
And perish in our own.

THE POPPY

TO MONICA
[1893.]

SUMMER Set lip to earth's bosom bare,
And left the flushed print in a poppy there:
Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came,
And the fanning wind puffed it to flapping
flame.

With burnt mouth, red like a lion's, it drank

The blood of the sun as he slaughtered sank,

And dipped its cup in the purpurate shine
When the eastern conduits ran with wine;

Till it grew lethargied with fierce bliss,
And hot as a swinkèd gipsy is,
And drowsed in sleepy savageries,
With mouth wide a-pout for a sultry kiss.
A child and man paced side by side,
Treading the skirts of eventide;
But between the clasp of his hand and hers
Lay, felt not, twenty withered years.
She turned, with the rout of her dusk
South hair,

And saw the sleeping gipsy there;
And snatched and snapped it in swift child's
whim,

With "Keep it, long as you live!”—to him.

And his smile, as nymphs from their laving

meres,

Trembled up from a bath of tears;

And joy, like a mew sea-rocked apart,
Tossed on the wave of his troubled heart.

For he saw what she did not see,
That as kindled by its own fervency
The verge shrivelled inward smoulderingly:
And suddenly 'twixt his hand and hers
He knew the twenty withered years-
No flower, but twenty shrivelled years.

"Was never such thing until this hour,"
Low to his heart he said; "the flower
Of sleep brings wakening to me,
And of oblivion, memory.

"Was never this thing to me," he said,
"Though with bruised poppies my feet are
red!"

And again, to his own heart very low:
"O child! I love, for I love and know;

"But you, who love nor know at all
The diverse chambers in Love's guest-hall,
Where some rise early, few sit long:
In how differing accents hear the throng
His great Pentecostal tongue;

ANGELS

Spin, Queen Mary, a Brown tress for Viola!

II

THE FATHER OF HEAVEN

Weave, hands angelical,

Weave a woof of flesh to pall Weave, hands angelical

Flesh to pall our Viola.

ANGELS

Weave, singing brothers, a Velvet flesh for Viola!

III

THE FATHER OF HEAVEN

Scoop, young Jesus, for her eyes, Wood-browned pools of ParadiseYoung Jesus, for the eyes,

For the eyes of Viola.

ANGELS

Tint, Prince Jesus, a Duskèd eye for Viola!

IV

THE FATHER OF HEAVEN Cast a star therein to drown, Like a torch in cavern brown, Sink a burning star to drown Whelmed in eyes of Viola.

ANGELS

Lave, Prince Jesus, a Star in eyes of Viola!

EX ORE INFANTIUM

[1893.]

LITTLE JESUS, wast Thou shy
Once, and just so small as I?
And what did it feel like to be
Out of Heaven, and just like me?
Didst Thou sometimes think of there,
And ask where all the angels were?

I should think that I would cry
For my house all made of sky;
I would look about the air,
And wonder where my angels were;
And at waking 'twould distress me-
Not an angel there to dress me!
Hadst Thou ever any toys,
Like us little girls and boys?

And didst Thou play in heaven with all
The angels, that were not too tall,
With stars for marbles? Did the things
Play Can you see me? through their wings?
Didst Thou kneel at night to pray,
And didst Thou join Thy hands, this way?
And did they tire sometimes, being young,
And make the prayer seem very long?
And dost Thou like it best, that we
Should join our hands to pray to Thee?
I used to think, before I knew,
The prayer not said unless we do.
And did Thy Mother at the night
Kiss Thee, and fold the clothes in right?
And didst Thou feel quite good in bed,
Kissed, and sweet, and Thy prayers said?

Thou canst not have forgotten all
That it feels like to be small:
And Thou know'st I cannot pray
To Thee in my father's way -
When Thou wast so little, say,
Couldst Thou talk Thy Father's way?

So, a little Child, come down

And hear a child's tongue like Thy own;
Take me by the hand and walk,
And listen to my baby-talk.
To Thy Father show my prayer
(He will look, Thou art so fair),
And say: "O Father, I, Thy Son,
Bring the prayer of a little one.'
And He will smile, that children's tongue
Has not changed since Thou wast young!

SCALA JACOBI PORTAQUE
EBURNEA
[1895.]

HER Soul from earth to Heaven lies,
Like the ladder of the vision,

Whereon go To and fro,

In ascension and demission, Star-flecked feet of Paradise.