He stood among a crowd at Dromahair; His heart hung all upon a silken dress, And he had known at last some tenderness, Before earth took him to her stony care; But when a man poured fish into a pile, It Seemed they raised their little silver
heads, And sang what gold morning or
evening sheds Upon a woven world-forgotten
isle Where people love beside the ravelled
seas;
That Time can never mar a lover's
vows
Under that woven changeless roof of
boughs: The singing shook him out of his
new ease.
He wandered by the sands of Lissadell;
His mind ran all on money cares and fears,
And he had known at last some prudent years Before they heaped his grave under the hill;
But while he passed before a plashy place,
A lug-worm with its grey and muddy mouth
Sang that somewhere to north or west or
south There dwelt a gay, exulting, gentle
race Under the golden or the silver skies;
That if a dancer stayed his hungry foot It seemed the sun and moon were in the fruit:
And at that singing he was no more wise.
He mused beside the well of Scanavin,
He mused upon his mockers: without fail
His sudden vengeance were a country tale,
When earthy night had drunk his body in;
But one small knot-grass growing by the
pool Sang where - unnecessary cruel voice -
Old silence bids its chosen race rejoice,
Whatever ravelled waters rise and fall Or stormy silver fret the gold of day, And midnight there enfold them like a fleece
And lover there by lover be at peace. The tale drove his fine angry mood away.
He slept under the hill of Lugnagall;
And might have known at last unhaunted sleep
Under that cold and vapour-turbaned steep,
Now that the earth had taken man and all:
Did not the worms that spired about his
bones proclaim with that unwearied, reedy
cry That God has laid His fingers on the
sky, That from those fingers glittering
summer runs Upon the dancer by the
dreamless wave. Why should those lovers
that no lovers miss Dream, until God burn
Nature with a kiss? The man has found no
comfort in the grave.
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