The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round, Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound, Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam, Our arms are waving, our lips are apart...
The Danaan children laugh, in cradles of wrought gold, And clap their hands together, and half close their eyes, For they will ride the North when the ger-eagle flies, With heavy whitening wings, and a heart fallen cold...
I say that Roger Casement Did what he had to do, He died upon the gallows But that is nothing new.
Now must we sing and sing the best we can, But first you must be told your character: Convicted cowards all, by kindred slain.
And learn that the best thing is To change my loves while dancing And pay but a kiss for a kiss.
The common breeds the common, A lout begets a lout, So when I take on half a score I knock their heads about.
O would, beloved, that you lay Under the dock-leaves in the ground, While lights were paling one by one.
There’s keen delight in what we have: The rattle of pebbles on the shore Under the receding wave.
I broke my heart in two So hard I struck. What matter? for I know That out of rock, Out of a desolate source, Love leaps upon its course.
Your hooves have stamped at the black margin of the wood, Even where horrible green parrots call and swing. My works are all stamped down into the sultry mud.
My chair was nearest to the fire In every company That talked of love or politics, Ere Time transfigured me.
He Who is wrapped in purple robes, With planets in His care, Had pity on the least of things Asleep upon a chair.
Thought is a garment and the soul’s a bride That cannot in that trash and tinsel hide: Hatred of God may bring the soul to God.
All men live in suffering I know as few can know, Whether they take the upper road Or stay content on the low...
Civilisation is hooped together, brought Under a rule, under the semblance of peace By manifold illusion...
I weave the shoes of Sorrow: Soundless shall be the footfall light In all men’s ears of Sorrow, Sudden and light.
Lionel Johnson comes the first to mind, That loved his learning better than mankind, Though courteous to the worst; much falling he Brooded upon sanctity...
I know, although when looks meet I tremble to the bone, The more I leave the door unlatched The sooner love is gone...
Once more the storm is howling, and half hid Under this cradle-hood and coverlid My child sleeps on.
How but in custom and in ceremony are innocence and beauty born?