Irish verse

been reading lots of this stuff, recently... really excellent, too, and so seldom seen, these days... anyway, this one's among my favorites... pay particular attention to verses 3 and 5... very powerful, moving words... it was written by thomas davis... (from) Lament for the Death of Eoghan Ruadh O'Neill (commonly called Owen Roe O'Neill) Did they dare, did they dare to slay Owen Roe O'Neill? Yes, they slew with poison him they feared to meet with steel. May God wither their hearts! May their blood cease to flow! May they walk in living death, who poisoned Owen Roe! Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words. From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to measure swords; But the weapon of the Saxon met him on his way, And he died at Cloc Uactair, upon Saint Leonard's Day. Sagest in the council was he- kindest in the hall; Sure, we never won a battle- was Owen won them, all. Had he lived, had he lived, our dear country would be free; But he's dead, but he's dead... and slaves we'll ever be. We thought you wouldn't die- were sure you would not go, And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow- Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky- Oh, why did you leave us, Owen? Why did you die? Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neill; bright was your eye. Oh, why did you leave us, Owen? Why did you die? Your troubles are all over- you're at rest with God on high; But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Owen!- why did you die?

moving piece. those responsible for his death were cowards.

(yes... they were normans)... from "carrickfergus", by louis macneice... i was born in belfast between the mountains and the gantries to the hooting of lost sirens and the clang of trams: thence to smoky carrick in county antrim where the bottle-neck harbor collects the mud which jams the little boats beneath the norman castle, the pier shining with lumps of chrystal salt; the scotch quarter was a line of residential houses but the irish quarter was a slum for the blind and the halt. the brook ran yellow from the factory stinking of chlorine, the yard-mill called it's funeral cry at noon; our lights looked over the lough to the lights of bangor under the peacock aura of a drowning moon. the norman walled this town against the country to stop his ears to the yelping of his slave and built a church in the form of a cross but denoting the list of christ on the cross in the angle of the nave... (the bastards)...

where were the normans from? dumb question to you, but humour me...

(not a "dumb" question at all)... when i refer to normans, am referring to the post-invasion brits... (the descendents of william (of normandy, you know), et al)...

Hey, keep me out of this!

you love the attention... *smile*

well, some attention, anyway...

any particular place you'd like that attention focused?

I can think of a couple...I'll let you know over our next beer... (I think it's back to you, now, Nick...me and my (at least partial) Norman self will be quiet now...(at least I don't identify with that particular aspect of my muttness))

i am wind on sea i am wave in storm i am sea-hound and seven-horned stag i am hawk on cliff a drop of dew in the sun a fair flower a boar for valor i am salmon in pool lake on plain a hill with ditches a word of art a piercing point that pours out rage the god who fashions fire in the head (from "amergin's songs"... anon., ninth century)

now this, I like

...sam I am.

(shudder)

i dunno, thought it was powerful, they knew who they were.....

(HUH?)

golly-gomer... (cool)...

woohoo!

here now... let's have none of that loosiana redneck-girl stuff... (this is poetry, after all)...

what was that? redneck-GIRL???

okay... (you're right... sorry 'bout that)... "redneck-broad"... (better?)

*giggle*

(apparently it is)

(hey, i asked for it)

(you are sooo brazen)...

oh, you know you luv it *wink*

(indeed?)

did you raise one eyebrow when you wrote that?

(g'night-will wait for your reply afore signing off)

for Irish literature as a whole, go to http://www.local.ie/culture/literature/

hey, that's really cool, wer (thanks!)

so is the rest of http://www.local.ie/ (you're welcome)

I know that poem!...I've studied it before....well, not all of it...only the parts I'd been seeking....you posted one of those....it's neat to see it again...I found a fascinating site on Irish poetry and literature....VERY old school...most of it hasn't been translated from its original Welsh version...all the way back to Taliesan and his cronies....if your interested I'll hunt down the address again

hmm....I tried to find it...but the scrap of paper I scribbled it onto is lost in the cesspool of papers I've been meaning to look through....this could take awhile...in the meantime, you might want to learn Welsh..it could be helpful and you'll probably have plenty of time(you should see this pile of papers)....but I promise I will get it to you sometime in....oh....the next three months .....maybe

(was going to make an observation... but it occurred to me that you break boards with your bare feet and everything... so um never mind)...

rofl!.....sometimes a long-distance relationship isn't so bad after all.....what's your observation?

I love you Nick...I really do...

um, je aussi, mlle... (but still wary of whatever the hell it is you're secreting 'neath that bodice)...

spit it out or you're going to find out

(now there's an interesting proposition)...

*eyes that ankle and practices a few kicks*

(not PRECISELY what i had in mind) (hmmm, but it's a start)

doesn't seem fitting for this topic to lack an offering from the greatest irish poet of them all... this is from "to ireland in the coming times"... (and it's author, of course, is william yeats) ...Nor may i less be counted one with Davis, Mangan, Ferguson, because, to him who ponders well, my rhymes more than their rhyming tell of things discovered in the deep, where only body's laid asleep. For the elemental creatures go about my table to and fro, that hurry from unmeasured mind to rant and rage in flood and wind; yet he who treads in measured ways may surely barter gaze for gaze. Man ever journeys on with them after the red-rose-bordered hem. Ah, fairies, dancing under the moon, a Druid land, a Druid tune!

The Curse (J.M Synge) (to a sister of an enemy of the author's who disapproved of "the playboy of the western world") Lord, confound this surly sister, Blight her brow with blotch and blister, Cramp her larynx, lung and liver, In her guts a galling give her. Let her live to earn her dinners In Mountjoy with seedy sinners: Lord, this judgement quickly bring, And I'm your servant, J.M. Synge. (in spite of this, maggie did enjoy a moderately successful career)

lol...

okay... i write this last night... feeling my irish or something... yeah whatever the hell that means... anyway it's called "scaffolds and englishmen"... (one thought frightening as the other, i suppose)... climb the stair ascend some airy view of once-believed possibility, adhering to a once-believing once possible race (inhabiting empty tower rooms) what remains- from here- where i see is blood and breath and fear- such as runs in me, and true- few millions more, such as, too blood of painted ones coursing veins ostensibly of human issue but irish, through and through have it take it within savage lids Heroic Centuries- well and good- but never enough to keep the bastards out the door poetry and fantasy and denial's sleep no ticket, anymore it is mystic impends and short walk it is from this business end of bullets and ropes and englishmen eternity a stroll a jaunt from this place such dreaming victory unsufficient- but all that remains for a dreaming dying (once) heroic race (nick)

wow...

*applauding between shots of Jameson's*

I was very excited to find this conference, but disappointed to see that no one had posted anything here for a long time. I'd like to see it revitalized, so here's my little contribution: LOVE--a medieval Irish poem My love is no short year's sentence. It is a grief lodged under the skin, Strength pushed beyond its bounds; The four quarters of the world, The highest point of heaven. It is A heart breaking or Battle with a ghost, Striving under water, Outrunning the sky or Courting an echo. So is my love, my passion & my devotion To him to whom I give them.

thank you for that, amy...and you're right, it's been awhile since anyone's posted here :)

You're welcome! Here's another: LIADAN LAMENTS CUIRITHIR 9th century Joyless what I have done; to torment my darling one. But for fear of the Lord of Heaven he would lie with me here. Not vain, it seemed, our choice, to seek Paradise through pain. I am Liadan, I loved Cuirithir as truly as they say. The short time I passed with him how sweet his company! The forest trees sighed music for us; and the flaring blue of seas. What folly to turn him against me whom I had treated most gently! No whim or scruple of mine should have come between Us, for above all others, without shame I declare him my heart's love. A roaring flame has consumed my heart: I will not live without him.

Here are a couple of little epigrams from medieval Ireland: Cu Chuimne in youth Read his way through half the truth. He let the other half lie While he gave women a try. Well for him in old age. He became a holy sage. He gave women the laugh. He read the other half. * * * Ah!light lovely lady with delicate lips aglow With breast more white than a branch heavy-laden with snow, When my hand was uplifted at Mass to salute the Host I looked at you once, and the half of my soul was lost.

Those are amazingly appropriate even now. Love them...More!

You're in luck--I have the most marvelous anthology of Irish verse which I received for a Christmas present. Here's a funny one, an anonymous medieval lyric: THE SNORING BEDMATE You thunder at my side, Lad of ceaseless hum; There's not a saint would chide My prayer that you were dumb. The dead start from the tomb With each blare from your nose. I suffer, with less room, Under these bedclothes. Which could I better bide Since my head's already broke-- Your pipe-drone at my side, Woodpecker's drill on oak? Brass scraped with knicky knives, A cowbell's tinny clank, Or the yells of tinkers' wives Giving birth behind a bank? A drunken, braying clown Slapping cards down on a board Were less easy to disown Than the softest snore you've snored. Sweeter the grunts of swine Than yours that win release. Sweeter, bedmate mine, The screech of grieving geese. A sick calf's moan for aid, A broken mill's mad clatter, The snarl of a flood cascade... Christ! now what's the matter? That was a ghastly growl! What signified that twist?-- An old wolf's famished howl, Wave-boom at some cliff's breast? Storm screaming round a crag, Bellow of raging bull, Hoarse bell of rutting stag, Compared with this were lull! Ah, now a gentler fall-- Bark of a crazy hound? Brats squabbling for a ball? Ducks squawking on a pond? No, rough weather's back again. Some great ship's about to sink And roaring bursts the main Over the bulwark's brink! Farewell, tonight, to sleep. Every gust across the bed Makes hair rise and poor flesh creep. Would that one of us were dead!

I did not know my SO got around that much...she has obviously been attempting to sleep next to him - and know all the requisit sounds he can make. Loved it, too! (I have slept with earplugs in for years!)

He's another hilarious one: A PRESENT OF BUTTER by Tadhg Dall O'Huiginn A woman gave me butter now, Good butter too it claimed to be. I don't think it was from a cow, And if it was it finished me. A beard was growing on the stuff, A beastly beard without a doubt, The taste was sickly, sour and rough, With poison juices seeping out. The stuff had spots, the stuff was grey, I doubt if any goat produced it. I had to face it every day, And how I wish I had refused it! This splendid butter had a mane, The glory of my humble home. No knife could cut it down again, It made me sick for weeks to come. This nasty grease a wrapping had Like a discarded winding sheet. Its very aspect was so bad, I scarcely had the nerve to eat. This horror had a heavy stink That left one fuddled, stunned and dead. 'Twas rainbow-hued, with what you'd think A crest of plumes above its head. The salt's a thing it hardly knew, In fact I think they'd barely met. It was not white, but rather blue. I am not quite recovered yet. 'Twas made of grease and wax and fat, O thoughts too horrible to utter! You may be sure that after that, I rather lost my taste for butter.

Makes you wonder why he did not dig a hole somewhere and bury it! *lol*

Are you conversant with Lady Gregory's great work?

Hmm, Lady Gregory...the name doesn't ring a bell, but unfortunately I don't know a whole lot about Irish poetry. In my British lit classes, we got Swift and Wilde and Yeats and Joyce, but not any of the lesser-known poets.

She was not so much a poet herself as a perserver of the ancient rhymes before they all got lost. Will get more on her for next post...it has been a while...

I LOVED "The Snoring Bedmate" Brandon does NOT snore on a regular basis but those rare occassions when he is ill or very stuffed with allergies... I do have murder on my brain! *grin*

Okay, here are some more serious ones. EPIGRAMS by John Swanick Drennan L'Amitie et L'Amour I. With nought to hide or to betray She eyed me frank and free. But, oh, the girl that looked away Was dearer far to me! II. A golden casket I designed To hold a braid of hair; My love was false, and now I find A coil of serpents there. III. Love signed the contract blithe and leal, Time shook the sand, Death set the seal. (Does anyone know what "leal" means?)

faithful, as I recall...

(it is used in Penn State's Alma Mater) ...North of England dialect for loyal. Also to be true to...

Thanks Marcia! That makes sense now!

The only trouble is with my alma mater, the sentence in which it is used is "May thy sons be leal and loyal to thy memory." Kinda redundant, no?!

Wow, you actually know your alma mater? When we were asked to sing it at graduation, I neither knew the words nor had ever heard it. As it turned out, it was a very stupid song anyway.

They are all stupid and maudlin and sticky...but my Dad was a Penn State grad, my eldest sister, her husband and my ex and me...we bleed blue and white in our family. I even knew the fight songs when I was a little kid!

Actually, I know all four verses, which is even scarier. I am a storehouse of irrelevant information, as you will discover. If it is abstruse, I just might know the answer...or know where to find it...!

When did you graduate from there? If you knew anyone in the English department, you might have known my research methods teacher who was there in the late seventies-early eighties, I think.

Longer ago than that, I am afraid... When I was in college the housemothers gave us morality lectures and warnings not to wear patent leather shoes 'cause guys could look up your skirts in the reflections. (We spent a fruitless evening trying to see anything in those reflections!) We signed in and out each time we left the dorm...and we stayed no more and no less chaste than the the coeds do today...amazing but true.

Yes, leal is similar to loyal and league, meaning bound to a community.

Here's a poem from the period of courtly love: O WOMAN, SHAPELY AS THE SWAN O woman, shapely as the swan, On your account I shall not die: The men you've slain--a trivial clan-- Were less than I. I ask me shall I die for these-- For blossom teeth and scarlet lips-- And shall that delicate swan-shape Bring me eclipse? Well-shaped the breasts and smooth the skin, The cheeks are fair, the tresses free-- And yet I shall not suffer death, God over me! Those even brows, that hair like gold, Those languourous tones, that virgin way, The flowing limbs, the rounded heel Slight men betray! Thy spirit keen through radiant mien, Thy shining throat and smiling eye, Thy little palm, thy side like foam-- I cannot die! O woman, shapely as the swan, In a cunning house hard-reared was I: O bosom white, O well-shaped palm, I shall not die!

REST ONLY IN THE GRAVE by James Clarence Mangan I rode till I reached the House of Wealth-- 'Twas filled with riot and blighted health. I rode till I reached the House of Love-- 'Twas vocal with sighs beneath and above! I rode till I reached the House of Sin-- There were shrieks and curses without and within. I rode till I reached the House of Toil-- Its inmates had nothing to bake or boil. I rode in search of the House of Content But never could reach it, far as I went! The House of Quiet, for strong and weak And poor and rich, I have still to seek-- That House is narrow, and dark, and small-- But the only Peaceful House of all.

The courtly one touched me...but this one rings so true! Thanks!

AGAINST BLAME OF WOMAN by Gerald Fitzgerald, Earl of Desmond Speak not ill of womankind, 'Tis no wisdom if you do. You that fault in women find, I would not be praised of you. Sweetly speaking, witty, clear, Tribe most lovely to my mind, Blame of such I hate to hear. Speak not ill of womankind. Bloody treason, murderous act, Not by women were designed, Bells o'erthrown nor churches sacked. Speak not ill of womankind. Bishop, King upon his throne, Primate skilled to loose and bind, Sprung of women every one! Speak not ill of womankind. For a brave young fellow long Hearts of women oft have pined. Who would dare their love to wrong? Speak not ill of womankind. Paunchy greybeards never more Hope to please a woman's mind. Poor young chieftains they adore! Speak not ill of womankind.

This is the best yet...should be cast in bronze somewhere! About the worst thing I ever did was to fall in love with the wrong man...it caused no wars...except for small skirmishes...*sigh*

Yep, that's about the worst sin I've ever committed, too. It caused somewhat of a tempest in the teapot of my little world, but it was over quickly enough with no casualties (unless you count my broken heart) on either side.

...same here...as far as I know....

And of course, no Irish verse page would be complete without J.M. Synge: IS IT A MONTH Is it a month since I and you In the starlight of Glen Dubh Stretched beneath a hazel bough Kissed from ear and throat to brow, Since your fingers, neck, and chin Made the bars that fenced me in, Till Paradise seemed but a wreck Near your bosom, brow, and neck And stars grew wilder, growing wise, In the splendour of your eyes! Since the weasel wandered near Whilst we kissed from ear to ear And the wet and withered leaves Blew about your cap and sleeves, Till the moon sank tired through the ledge Of the wet and windy hedge? And we took the starry lane Back to Dublin town again.

And a little one from William Butler Yeats: THE GREAT DAY Hurrah for revolution and more cannon-shot! A beggar upon horseback lashes a beggar on foot. Hurrah for revolution and cannon come again! The beggars have changed places, but the lash goes on.

I'm sitting here sighing over John McDermott singing "Believe Me," by Thomas Moore so I thought I might post the lyrics since I've been neglecting to post anything here lately. Believe me if all those endearing young charms Which I gaze on so fondly today Were to change by tomorrow and fleet in my arms Like fairy gifts fading away. Thou woulds't still be ador'd as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will; And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still. It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, And thy cheeks unprofan'd by a tear That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known, To which time will but make thee more dear. No, the heart that has truly lov'd never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close, As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets, The same look which she turn'd when he rose.

While I'm still listening to my Irish Tenors CD, I might as well post another of my favorites from it: VOYAGE by Johnny Duhan I am a sailor, you're my first mate, All signed on together, we've completed our fate. Hauled up our anchor, determined not to fail, For the hearts treasure, together we set sail. With no maps to guide us we steered our own course, Rode out the storms when the wind was gale force, Sat out the doldrums with patience and hope, Working together, we learned how to cope. Life is an ocean, love is a boat; In troubled waters it keeps us afloat. When we started the voyage there was just me and you; Now gathered around us we have our own crew. Together we're in this relationship, We built it together with care to last the whole trip. Our true destination's not marked on my charts, For we're navigating the shores of a heart.

Amy, thank you. ;)

You're welcome! I just got the William Butler Yeats reader today, so as soon as I have time to look through it, I should be posting some Yeats yummies!

Just to kick off the Yeats yummies: He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and the light and the half-light, I would lay them under your feet, But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have laid them under your feet - Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. Thanks for posting Voyage here (a Christy Moore composition) - I quoted some of it for my parents' 40th anniversary recently. (I think it should be "coupled our fate" in the 2nd line).

Ohh, that's a beautiful one, Mark! I'll have to remember it for future reference. It reminds me of that dedication from Montaigne: "I offer you nothing of my own both because it is already yours and there is nothing worthy of you." I'm looking through my Yeats book right now and they all seem so sad...

Mark that is so sad and so longing and so wonderful. Thank you! I know that feeling, as well. I perhaps should just stay out of poetry for a while. Amy, is there any Happy Irish Verse or is that another oxymoron?! Yeats was a gloomy guy. There is a prof here who is a Yeats Scholar and spends his sabbaticals in Dublin. There are happier things to read to break the dispair, one hopes!

Hmm...happy Irish verse...well, the only things I can think of are very funny ones that are usually bewailing someone's situation (remember the ones about the butter and the snorer,) so I guess the answer would be no, not really. There are some happy Irish songs, but not a whole lot of those, either.

Irish drinking songs would probably fall in the "happy" verse category. ;)

Well, that depends on how drunk you are--the drunker you get, the sadder the songs get! Here's one from the greatest of all Irish bards (in my opinion): RECONCILIATION by William Butler Yeats Some may have blamed you that you took away The verses that could move them on the day When, the ears being deafened, the sight of the eyes blind With lightning, you went from me, and I could find Nothing to make a song about but kings, Helmets, and swords, and half-forgotten things That were like memories of you--but now We'll out, for the world lives as long ago; And while we're laughing, weeping fit, Hurl helmets, crowns, and swords into the pit. But, dear, cling close to me; since you were gone, My barren thoughts have chilled me to the bone.

POLITICS

POLITICS By W.B. Yeats How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics, Yet here's a travelled man that knows What he talks about, And there's a politician That has both read and thought, And maybe what they say is true Of war and war's alarms, But O that I were young again And held her in my arms.

Yep, those are sad indeed... I was thinking on the order of "Bloody Orangeman" -- you know, "Oh, one Sunday morning while on me way to Mass / I met a bloody Orangman and I killed him for his pass / I killed him for his pass me boys and sent his soul to hell / and when he got back, he had a strange tale to tell...

Great stuff, Amy. Politics is one of my favourites. I'm not sure that all of this stuff is as sad as it may look. Much of Irish poetry is from the perspective of old but happy, or poor but happy, or defeated but brave. For real melancholy, go to those drinking songs! You haven't felt maudlin until you've heard a soulful drunk singing Carrickfergus, or From here to Clare.

I've heard Van Morrison singing "Carrickfergus," and that was pretty moving. That's one of my favourite Irish ballads!

Here's a really sad one, sung by that blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked, sparkling Irish tenor boyo, Anthony Kearns: GRACE As we gather in the chapel here In old Kilmainham jail, I think about the last few weeks Oh, will they say we failed? From our schooldays they have told us We must yearn for liberty, Yet all I want in this old place Is to have you here with me. Oh Grace, just hold me in your arms And let this moment linger, Then take me out at dawn and I will die; With all my love I'll place this wedding ring Upon your finger. There won't be time to share our love, For we must say goodbye. Now I know it's hard for you, my love, To ever understand The love I bear for these brave men, My love for this dear land; But when glory called me to his side Down in the GPO, I had to leave my own sick bed, To there I had to go. Oh Grace, just hold me in your arms, etc. Now as the dawn is breaking, My heart is breaking too, On this May morn as I walk out My thoughts will be of you; And I'll write some words upon the walls So everyone will know I loved so much that I could see His blood upon the rose. Oh Grace, just hold me in your arms, etc.

The Folly of being Comforted by W.B. Yeats One that is ever kind said yesterday: "Your well-belov�d's hair has threads of grey, And little shadows come about her eyes; Time can but make it easier to be wise Though now it seems impossible, and so All that you need is patience." Heart cries, "No, I have not a crumb of comfort, not a grain, Time can but make her beauty over again: Because that great nobleness of hers The fire that stirs about her, when she stirs, Burns more clearly. O she had not these ways When all the wild summer was in her gaze." O heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head, You'd know the folly of being comforted.

(I love this one! :-)) THE SCHOLARS

By Yeats again Bald heads forgetful of their sins, Old, learned, respectable bald heads Edit and annotate the lines That young men, tossing on their beds, Rhymed out in love's despair To flatter beauty's ignorant ear. All shuffle there; all cough in ink; All wear the carpet with their shoes; All think what other people think; All know the man their neighbour knows. Lord, what would they say Did their Catullus walk that way?

(I love this one! :-)) THE SCHOLARS

Sorry, Amy. You've held the fort magnificently. The Montaigne dedication you mentioned a while ago gave rise to the title of the anthology in which I discovered most of my early favourites: "Other Men's Flowers". (Montaigne said I have gathered a posy of other men's flowers, and nothing but the string that binds them is my own.") This was compiled by Field Marshal Wavell during breaks from the Second World War, from poems that he had by memory (or had at one time memorised). The amount of stuff is staggering to me (in terms of the memory feats required), but as I also tend to like the stuff I can learn, it makes for a very enjoyable anthology for me. Off-topic, but you mentioned Montaigne...

That's okay, Mark--you can get off topic any time you want, especially if you want to talk about Montaigne! I used to have a lot of poems memorized, and I seem to have a pretty good capacity for doing so if I try, but I've found as time goes on that I tend to change words slightly or get lines turned around.

A LAST CONFESSION by William Butler Yeats What lively lad most pleasured me Of all that with me lay? I answer that I gave my soul And loved in misery, But had great pleasure with a lad That I loved bodily. Flinging from his arms I laughed To think his passion such He fancied that I gave a soul Did but our bodies touch, And laughed upon his breast to think Beast gave beast as much. I gave what other women gave That stepped out of their clothes, But when this soul, its body off, Naked to naked goes, He it has found shall find therein What none other knows, And give his own and take his own And rule in his own right; And though it loved in misery Close and cling so tight, There's not a bird of day that dare Extinguish that delight.

The Irish out-Celtic the Celts...Gloomy and maudlin, though they are,they seem to wallow in it as though it were a blessing and a grace. Thanks for the Yeats and Montaigne. (Mark, the Cricket match is on!)

We are also very proud and with all of those traits combined, we've ended up a race of starving poets and musicians!

i'm so glad there are people out there who enjoy poetry. thanks for keeping this conference alive (or, better yet, bringing it back to life) *hugs*

For our Poetess-Laureate whose muse has gone on Hiatus with the men in my world, could we do less?! *hugs* (Thank you, Amy!)

*bowing graciously* Thank you, ladies!

indeed, amy, thanks so much!

A DEEP-SWORN VOW by William Butler Yeats Others because you did not keep That deep-sworn vow have been friends of mine; Yet always when I look death in the face, When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, Suddenly I meet your face.

the irish verse is lovely... (especially the yeats) ...and i am moved to offer one of my own favorites (from his 'fergus and the druid')... druid: what would you, fergus? fergus: be no more king, but learn the dreaming wisdom that is yours. druid: look on my gray hair, and hollow cheeks, and upon my hands that cannot lift a sword; this body trembling, like a wind-blown reed. no woman's loved me, no man's sought my help. fergus: a king's but a foolish laborer who wastes his blood to be another's dream. druid: then take, if you must, this little bag of dreams. unloose the cord, and they will wrap around you. fergus: i see my life go drifting like a river, from change to change. i have been many things- a green drop in the surge, a gleam of light upon a sword, a fir tree on a hill, an old slave grinding at a heavy quern, a king sitting upon a chair of gold- and all of these things have been wonderful and great; but now i have grown nothing, knowing all. ah! druid, druid, how great webs of sorrow lay hidden in the small, slate-colored thing!

Thanks, Nick...very like Merlin and Arthur, is it not?! The price a druid pays for his "gifts" is far higher than any mere mortal would imagine. The celebacy would be enough to discourage most males from pursuing it in the first place! Innocence has its value. I prefer stumbling along the best I can...making mistakes, as we all do, and looking back in wisdom.