Selected Poetry

New Zealand Tablet, 16 March 1922, Page 24

Selected Poetry

0 Little Bird (A sparrow which I found dead on my doorstep on a day of winter.) 0 little bird I Cold to me thy lying on the flag: Bird, that never had an evil thought, Pitiful the coming of death to thee! — P. H. Pearse. , * Why Do Ye Torture Me? Why are ye torturing me, 0 desires of my heart? Torturing me and paining me by day and by night? Hunting me as a poor deer would be hunted on a hill, A poor long-wearied deer with the hound-pack after him ? There’s no ease to my paining in the loneliness of the hills, But the cry of the hunters terrifically to be heard, The cry of my desires haunting me without respite,— 0 ravening hounds, long is your run! S/ No satisfying can come to my desires while I live, For the satisfaction I desired yesterday is no satisfaction, And the hound-pack is the greedier of the satisfaction it has got, — And forever I shall not sleep till I sleep in the grave. —H. Pearse, A Woman of the Mountain Keens Her Son Grief on the death, it has blackened my heart: It has snatched my love and left me desolate, Without friend or compnion under the roof of my house But this sorrow in the midst of me, and I keening. As I walked the mountain in the. evening The birds spoke to me sorrowfully, The sweet snipe spoke and the voiceful curlew Relating to me that my darling was dead. 1 called to you and your voice I heard not, I called again and I got no answer, I kissed your mouth, and 0 God how cold it was! Ah, cold is your bed in the lonely churchyard. 0 green-sodded grave in which my child is, Little narrow grave, since you are his bed, My blessing on you, and thousands of blessings On the green sods that are over my treasure. Grief on the death, it cannot be denied, It lays low, green and withered together,— And 0 gentle little son, what tortures me is That our fair body should be making clay! — P. H. Pearse. Lullaby of a Woman of the Mountain Little gold head, my house’s candle, You will guide all wayfarers that walk this mountain. Little soft mouth that my breast has known, Mary will kiss you as she passes. Little round cheek, 0 smoother than satin, Jesus will lay His hand on you. Mary’s kiss on my baby’s mouth, Christ’s little hand on my darling’s cheek! House, be still, and ye little grey mice, Lie close to-night in your hidden lairs. Moths on the window, fold your wings Little black chafers, silence your humming.

Plover and curlew, fly not over my house, Do not speak, wild barnacle, passing over this mountain. Things of the mountain that wake in the night-time, Do not stir to-night till the daylight whitens! — P. H. Pearse. Little Lad of the Tricks Little lad of the tricks, Full well I know That you have been in mischief: Confess your fault truly, f I forgive you, child Of the soft red mouth: I will not condemn anyone For a sin not understood. Raise your comely head Till I kiss your mouth: If either of us’ is the better of that I am the better of it. There is a fragrance in your kiss That I have not found yet In the kisses of women Or in the honey of their bodies. Lad of the grey eyes, That flush in thy cheek Would be white with dread of me Could you read my secrets. He who has my secrets Is not fit to touch you: Is not that a pitiful thing, Little lad of the tricks —P. H. Pearse. ¥ St. Patrick’s Day (For the N.Z. Tablet.) Beyond the glory-mantled centuries, A fire nigh Tara’s hill Doth greet the rose blush of an Easter morn, And pagan chieftains thrill. Before the Ard-Ri and his kingly court, Faith, Love, and Life made known, The priceless treasure of our race is sought From Cork to Innishowen. Through ev’ry tempest of the vicious years, Unsullied and serene, The fire of Slane hath o’er the country blazed— The People’s rampart been And by its light, magnificent and straight A mighty throng have trod The universe, their deep devotion sworn To Ireland and to God. Oh, Mother of the Sorrows! oft have we Thine anguish felt our own: Thy mournful brow with tenderness caressed, And with thee shared the lone, Long vigil. Lo! the night is passing by, And with the morning sun Unto thy pale, parched lips is pressed the kiss Of Freedom - wooed and won. And now along the five great roads, behold! In shining grand array, Beauty of soul and mind and manhood haste This memorable day— Resolved Irish Nation to enthrone, And wake the clairseach’s strings To summon back the ancient splendor, ours, At Tara of the Kings: —O’Nuallain.