And this same moon floats like a trail of fire Down the long Boyne, and darts white arrows thro' The mill wood; her white skirt is on the weir, She walks thro' crystal mazes of the dew, And rests awhile upon the dewy slope Where I will hope again the old, old hope.
With wandering we are worn my muse and I, And, if I sing, my song knows nought of mirth. I often think my soul is an old lie In sackcloth, it repents so much of birth. But I will build it yet a cloister home Near the peace of lakes when I have ceased to roam.
Where does Remembrance weep when we forget? From whither brings she back an old delight? Why do we weep that once we laughed? and yet Why are we sad that once our hearts were light? I sometimes think the days that we made bright Are damned within us, and we hear them yell, Deep in the solitude of that wide hell, Because we welcome in some new regret.
I will remember with sad heart next year This music and this water, but to-day Let me be part of all this joy. My ear Caught far-off music which I bid away, The light of one fair face that fain would stay Upon the heart's broad canvas, as the Face On Mary's towel, lighting up the place. Too sad for joy, too happy for a tear.
Methinks I see the music like a light Low on the bobbing water, and the fields Yellow and brown alternate on the height, Hanging in silence there like battered shields, Lean forward heavy with their coloured yields As if they paid it homage; and the strains, Prisoners of Echo, up the sunburnt plains Fade on the cross-cut to a future night.
In the red West the twisted moon is low, And on the bubbles there are half-lit stars: Music and twilight and the deep blue flow Of water: and the watching fire of Mars: The deep fish slipping thro' the moonlit bars Make Death a thing of sweet dreams, life a mock. And the soul patient by the heart's loud clock Watches the time, and thinks it wondrous slow.
(WHO CAME ONE DAY WHEN WE WERE ALL GLOOMY AND CHEERED US WITH SAD MUSIC)
We were all sad and could not weep, Because our sorrow had not tears: You came a silent thing like Sleep, And stole away our fears.
Old memories knocking at each heart Troubled us with the world's great lie: You sat a little way apart And made a fiddle cry,