LITMIR.BIZ

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tumult and war away

      From girl and boy and man and beast;

      The fields grew fatter day by day,

      The wild fowl of the air increased;

      And every ancient Ollave said,

      While he bent down his fading head,

      ‘He drives away the Northern cold.’

      They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the beech leaves old.

      I sat and mused and drank sweet wine;

      A herdsman came from inland valleys,

      Crying, the pirates drove his swine

      To fill their dark-beaked hollow galleys.

      I called my battle-breaking men,

      And my loud brazen battle-cars

      From rolling vale and rivery glen;

      And under the blinking of the stars

      Fell on the pirates by the deep,

      And hurled them in the gulph of sleep:

      These hands won many a torque of gold.

      They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the beech leaves old.

      But slowly, as I shouting slew

      And trampled in the bubbling mire,

      In my most secret spirit grew

      A whirling and a wandering fire:

      I stood: keen stars above me shone,

      Around me shone keen eyes of men:

      I laughed aloud and hurried on

      By rocky shore and rushy fen;

      I laughed because birds fluttered by,

      And starlight gleamed, and clouds flew high,

      And rushes waved and waters rolled.

      They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the beech leaves old.

      And now I wander in the woods

      When summer gluts the golden bees,

      Or in autumnal solitudes

      Arise the leopard-coloured trees;

      Or when along the wintry strands

      The cormorants shiver on their rocks;

      I wander on, and wave my hands,

      And sing, and shake my heavy locks.

      The grey wolf knows me; by one ear

      I lead along the woodland deer;

      The hares run by me growing bold.

      They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the beech leaves old.

      I came upon a little town,

      That slumbered in the harvest moon,

      And passed a-tiptoe up and down,

      Murmuring, to a fitful tune,

      How I have followed, night and day,

      A tramping of tremendous feet,

      And saw where this old tympan lay,

      Deserted on a doorway seat,

      And bore it to the woods with me;

      Of some unhuman misery

      Our married voices wildly trolled.

      They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the beech leaves old.

      I sang how, when day’s toil is done,

      Orchil shakes out her long dark hair

      That hides away the dying sun

      And sheds faint odours through the air:

      When my hand passed from wire to wire

      It quenched, with sound like falling dew,

      The whirling and the wandering fire;

      But lift a mournful ulalu,

      For the kind wires are torn and still,

      And I must wander wood and hill

      Through summer’s heat and winter’s cold.

      They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the beech leaves old.

THE STOLEN CHILD

       Table of Contents

      Where dips the rocky highland

      Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,

      There lies a leafy island

      Where flapping herons wake

      The drowsy water rats;

      There we’ve hid our faery vats.

      Full of berries,

      And of reddest stolen cherries.

      Come away, O human child!

      To the waters and the wild

      With a faery, hand in hand,

      For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

      Where the wave of moonlight glosses

      The dim gray sands with light,

      Far off by furthest Rosses

      We foot it all the night,

      Weaving olden dances,

      Mingling hands and mingling glances

      Till the moon has taken flight;

      To and fro we leap

      And chase the frothy bubbles,

      While the world is full of troubles

      And is anxious in its sleep.

      Come away, O human child!

      To the waters and the wild

      With a faery, hand in hand,

      For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

      Where the wandering water gushes

      From the hills above Glen-Car,

      In pools among the rushes

      That scarce could bathe a star,

      We seek for slumbering trout,

      And whispering in their ears

      Give them unquiet dreams;

      Leaning softly out

      From ferns that drop their tears

      Over the young streams.

      Come away, O human child!

      To the waters and the wild

      With a faery, hand in hand,

      For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

      Away with us he’s going,

      The solemn-eyed:

      He’ll hear no more the lowing

      Of the calves on the warm hillside;

      Or the kettle on the hob

      Sing peace into his breast,

      Or see the brown mice bob

      Round

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