XII

WE HAVE LOVED OF YORE

(To an air of Diabelli)

ERRIED brake and reedy island,

Heaven below, and only heaven above,

Through the sky's inverted azure

Softly swam the boat that bore our love.
Bright were your eyes as the day;
Bright ran the stream,

Bright hung the sky above.

Days of April, airs of Eden,

How the glory died through golden hours,

And the shining moon arising

How the boat drew homeward filled with flowers!

Bright were your eyes in the night:

We have lived, my love

O, we have loved, my love.

Frost has bound our flowing river,

Snow has whitened all our island brake,

And beside the winter fagot

Joan and Darby doze and dream and wake.

Still, in the river of dreams

Swims the boat of love

Hark! chimes the falling oar!

WE HAVE LOVED OF YORE

And again in winter evens

When on firelight dreaming fancy feeds,

In those ears of aged lovers

Love's own river warbles in the reeds. Love still the past, O, my love!

We have lived of yore,

O, we have loved of yore.

The cock shall sing and the merry bugles ring, And all the little brown birds sing upon the spray.

The thorn shall blow

In the month of May,

And my love shall go

In her holiday array:

But I shall lie in the kirkyard nigh

While all the little brown birds sing upon the spray.

MATER TRIUMPHANS

SON of my woman's body, you go, to the drum and

fife,

To taste the colour of love and the other side of life — From out of the dainty the rude, the strong from out of

the frail,

Eternally through the ages from the female comes the

male.

The ten fingers and toes, and the shell-like nail on each, The eyes blind as gems and the tongue attempting speech;

Impotent hands in my bosom, and yet they shall wield the sword!

Drugged with slumber and milk, you wait the day of the Lord.

Infant bridegroom, uncrowned king, unanointed priest,
Soldier, lover, explorer, I see you nozzle the breast.
You that grope in my bosom shall load the ladies with
rings,

You, that came forth through the doors, shall burst the doors of Kings.

B

XV

RIGHT is the ring of words

When the right man rings them, Fair the fall of songs

When the singer sings them. Still they are carolled and said —

On wings they are carried

After the singer is dead

And the maker buried.

Low as the singer lies

In the field of heather, Songs of his fashion bring The swains together. And when the west is red

With the sunset embers, The lover lingers and sings And the maid remembers.