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The Mountainy Singer
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Deep ways and dripping boughs,
The fog falling drearily;
Cowherds calling on their cows,
And I crying wearily,
Wearily, wearily, out-a-door,
Houseless, hearthless, coatless, kindless,
Poorest of the wandering poor.
I am the beggar Christ —
Christ that calmed the castling flood!
Cross and thorn have not sufficed
To punish me as you would;
But out-a-door in wind and rain,
Houseless, hearthless, coatless, kindless,
You keep me wandering in pain.
NIGHT, AND I TRAVELLING
Night, and I travelling.
An open door by the wayside,
Throwing out a shaft of warm yellow light.
A whiff of peat-smoke;
A gleam of delf on the dresser within;
A woman’s voice crooning, as if to a child.
I pass on into the darkness.
NIGHT-PIECE
Fill me, O stars,
As with an olden tune.
Look thro’ your cloudy bars,
O summer moon;
Look thro’, and drench in silver light
My soul this night.
O brief, enchanted dream
Of sea and sky,
Of ploughland, meadow, stream,
And twilight loth to die,
Of fire and dew —
My soul is one with you!
AT MORNING TIDE
At morning tide,
Upon the hill of Sliabh-na-mBan,
I saw the dead Christ glorified!
His body, like the risen sun,
Was all too bright to look upon:
The blue air burned
About him: in his side
And hands and feet there shone
(Thro’ stabs and gashes gaping wide)
The golden glory of his blood:
The gilly stood
Upon his right hand: at his feet
The fishers, Peter, James and John,
Knelt worshipping
With outstretched arms, and eyes
To heaven turned:
And Maria, his mother sweet,
(The partner of his mysteries),
And Magdalen and Salome
Came thro’ the doorway of the day
Behind him, weeping.
… Then a cloud came o’er
My senses, and I saw and heard no more!
THE MAY-FIRE
Come away, O Maire Ban,
Come away, come away
Where the heads of ceanabhan
Tremble in the twilight air,
And the rushes nod and sway,
And no other sound is heard
But the swaying of the rushes,
And the shouts from Croc-an-air,
And the singing of the fidils,
And the laughing of the dancers
Round about the yellow fire,
And the scream of the water-bird.
Come away, O life of me,
O bone of me, O blood of me —
Feilim has a tale to tell:
He would own his love for thee,
Smitten first at Mura’s well,
Bitten at the Lammas pattern,
By the blessed Mura’s well.
He would tell thee, Maire Ban,
How his pulses leap and thrill
Quicker than the old men’s fidils,
Singing out from yonder hill.
Come away, O heart’s desire,
From the ruddy-featured circle,
From the story-telling circle,
By the wreathing Bealtein fire.
Come away, come away,
The fog falling drearily;
Cowherds calling on their cows,
And I crying wearily,
Wearily, wearily, out-a-door,
Houseless, hearthless, coatless, kindless,
Poorest of the wandering poor.
I am the beggar Christ —
Christ that calmed the castling flood!
Cross and thorn have not sufficed
To punish me as you would;
But out-a-door in wind and rain,
Houseless, hearthless, coatless, kindless,
You keep me wandering in pain.
NIGHT, AND I TRAVELLING
Night, and I travelling.
An open door by the wayside,
Throwing out a shaft of warm yellow light.
A whiff of peat-smoke;
A gleam of delf on the dresser within;
A woman’s voice crooning, as if to a child.
I pass on into the darkness.
NIGHT-PIECE
Fill me, O stars,
As with an olden tune.
Look thro’ your cloudy bars,
O summer moon;
Look thro’, and drench in silver light
My soul this night.
O brief, enchanted dream
Of sea and sky,
Of ploughland, meadow, stream,
And twilight loth to die,
Of fire and dew —
My soul is one with you!
AT MORNING TIDE
At morning tide,
Upon the hill of Sliabh-na-mBan,
I saw the dead Christ glorified!
His body, like the risen sun,
Was all too bright to look upon:
The blue air burned
About him: in his side
And hands and feet there shone
(Thro’ stabs and gashes gaping wide)
The golden glory of his blood:
The gilly stood
Upon his right hand: at his feet
The fishers, Peter, James and John,
Knelt worshipping
With outstretched arms, and eyes
To heaven turned:
And Maria, his mother sweet,
(The partner of his mysteries),
And Magdalen and Salome
Came thro’ the doorway of the day
Behind him, weeping.
… Then a cloud came o’er
My senses, and I saw and heard no more!
THE MAY-FIRE
Come away, O Maire Ban,
Come away, come away
Where the heads of ceanabhan
Tremble in the twilight air,
And the rushes nod and sway,
And no other sound is heard
But the swaying of the rushes,
And the shouts from Croc-an-air,
And the singing of the fidils,
And the laughing of the dancers
Round about the yellow fire,
And the scream of the water-bird.
Come away, O life of me,
O bone of me, O blood of me —
Feilim has a tale to tell:
He would own his love for thee,
Smitten first at Mura’s well,
Bitten at the Lammas pattern,
By the blessed Mura’s well.
He would tell thee, Maire Ban,
How his pulses leap and thrill
Quicker than the old men’s fidils,
Singing out from yonder hill.
Come away, O heart’s desire,
From the ruddy-featured circle,
From the story-telling circle,
By the wreathing Bealtein fire.
Come away, come away,
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Последний отзыв
Книга дельная. Без воды, приводятся реальные кейсы и способы их разрешения. Много практичных полезных советов и методик. Кое-что уже испробовала в дел...
Далее