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THE WAYFARER

I

The Trees

THERE is no glory of the sunset here!
Heavy the clouds upon the darkening road,
And heavy too the wind upon the trees!
The trees sway, making moan
Continuous, like breaking seas.
O impotent, bare things,

You give at last the very cry of Earth!
I walk this darkening road in solemn mood:
Within deep hell came Dante to a wood-
Like him I marvel at the crying trees!

II

Christ the Comrade

Christ, by thine own darkened hour,
Live within me, heart and brain-
Let my hands not slip the rein!

Ah, how long ago it is

Since a comrade went with me!

Now a moment let me see

Thyself, lonely in the dark,
Perfect, without wound or mark!

The Captive Archer

III

To-morrow I will bend the bow:
My soul shall have her mark again,
My bosom feel the archer's strain.
No longer pacing to and fro
With idle hands and listless brain:
As goes the arrow, forth I go.
My soul shall have her mark again,
My bosom feel the archer's strain.
To-morrow I will bend the bow.

IV

Triumphators

The drivers in the sunset race

Their coal-carts over cobble-stones-
Not draymen but triumphators:
Their bags are left with Smith and Jones,
They let their horses take their stride,
Which toss their forelocks in their pride.

Nor blue nor green these factions wear
Which make career o'er Dublin stones;
But Pluto his own livery

Is what each whip-carrier owns.
The Cæsar of the cab-rank, I

Salute the triumph speeding by.

GARADH

FOR the poor body that I own
I could weep many a tear:
The hours have stolen flesh and bone,
And left a changeling here.

Four feeble bones are left to me,
And the basket of my breast.
And I am mean and ugly now

As the scald flung from the nest.

The briars drag me at the knee,
The brambles go within,
And often do I feel him turn
The old man in my skin.

The strength is carded from my bones,
The swiftness drained from me.

And all the living thoughts I had
Are like far ships at sea!

"I SHALL NOT DIE FOR THEE"

(From the Irish)

O WOMAN, shapely as the swan,
On your account I shall not die:
The men you've slain—a trivial clan-
Were less than I.

ask me shall I die for these—

For blossom-teeth and scarlet lips?
And shall that delicate swan shape
Bring me eclipse?

Well-shaped the breasts and smooth the skin,

The cheeks are fair, the tresses free

And yet I shall not suffer death

God over me!

Those even brows, that hair like gold,

Those languorous tones, that virgin way—
The flowing limbs, the rounded heel
Slight men betray!

Thy spirit keen through radiant mien,
Thy shining throat and smiling eye,
Thy little palm, thy side like foam-
I cannot die!

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"I Shall Not Die for Thee"

O woman, shapely as the swan,

In a cunning house hard-reared was I:
O bosom white, O well-shaped palm,
I shall not die!

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