Beside the ocean’s din she combed her hair, Singing the nocturne of the passing ships, Before her earthly lover found her there And kissed away the music from her lips.
She came unto the hills and saw the change That brings the swallow and the geese in turns. But there was not a grief she deeméd strange, For there is that in her which always mourns.
Kind heart she has for all on hill or wave Whose hopes grew wings like ants to fly away. I bless the God Who such a mother gave This poor bird-hearted singer of a day.
(“King Lear’s Wife and other Plays.” Published by Constable.)
The bird in my heart’s a-calling through a far-fled, tear-grey sea To the soft slow hills that cherish dim waters weary for me, Where the folk of rath and dun trail homeward silently In the mist of the early night-fall that drips from their hair like rain.
The bird in my heart’s a-flutter, for the bitter wind of the sea Shivers with thyme and woodbine as my body with memory; I feel their perfumes ooze in my ears like melody-- The scent of the mead at the harping I shall not hear again.
The bird in my heart’s a-sinking to a hushed vale hid in the sea, Where the moonlit dew o’er dead fighters is stirred by the feet of the Shee, Who are lovely and old as the earth but younger than I an be Who have known the forgetting of dying to a life one lonely pain.
They said: “She dwelleth in some place apart, Immortal Truth, within whose eyes Who looks may find the secret of the skies And healing for life’s smart.”
I sought Her in loud caverns underground-- On heights where lightnings flashed and fell; I scaled high Heaven; I stormed the gates of Hell, But Her I never found.
Till thro’ the tumults of my Quest I caught A whisper: “Here, within thy heart, I dwell; for I am thou: behold thou art The Seeker--and the Sought.”
Since the wise men have not spoken, I speak that am only a fool; A fool that hath loved his folly, Yea, more than the wise men their books or their counting houses, or their quiet homes, Or their fame in men’s mouths; A fool that in all his days hath done never a prudent thing, Never hath counted the cost, nor recked if another reaped The fruit of his mighty sowing, content to scatter the seed; A fool that is unrepentant, and that soon at the end of all Shall laugh in his lonely heart as the ripe ears fall to the reaping-hooks And the poor are filled that were empty, Tho’ he go hungry.