Chapter I: FEAR Eileen, the wild Eileen

The eyes she lifts to mine, That laugh and laugh and never tell The half that they divine!

She draws me to her lonely cot
Ayont the Tulloch Hill;
And, laughing, draws me to her door
And, laughing, holds me still.

I bless myself and bless myself,
But in the holy sign,
There seems to be no heart of love,
To still the pain in mine.

The morning, bright above the moor,
Is bright no more for me--
A weary bit of burning pain
Is where my heart should be!

For since the wild, sweet laugh of her
Has drawn me to her snare,
The only sunlight in the world
Is shining from her hair.

Yet well I know, ah, well I know
Why 'tis so sweet and wild--
She slept beneath a faery thorn,
She is a faery child!

And so I leave my mother lone,
No meal to fill the pot,
And follow, follow wild Eileen.
If so I will or not.

I fear to meet her in the glen,
Or seek her by the shore;
I fear to lift her cabin's latch,
But--should she come no more!--

O Eileen Og, O wild Eileen,
My heart is wracked with fear
Lest you should meet your faery kin,
And, laughing, leave me here!

The Banshee

THE Banshee cries on the rising wind "O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!" The dead to free and the quick to bind-- (Close fast the shutter and draw the blind!) "O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!"

Why are you paler my dearest dear? "O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!" 'Tis but the wind in the elm tree near-- (Acushla, hush! lest the Banshee hear!) "O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!"

See, how the crackling fire up-springs, "O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!" Up and up on its flame-red wings; Hark, how the cheerful kettle sings! "O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!"

Core of my heart! How cold your lips! "O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!" White as the spray the wild wind whips, Still as your icy finger tips! "O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!"

On the rising wind the Banshee cries-- "O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!" I kiss your hair. I kiss your eyes-- The kettle is dumb; the red flame dies! "Ochone! Ochone! Ochone!"

The Witch

HER hair was gold and warm it lay
Upon the pallor of her brow;
Her eyes were deep, aye, deep and gray--
And in their depths he drowned his vow.

She wandered where the sands were wet,
Weaving the sea-weed for a crown,
And there at eve a monk she met--
A holy monk in cowl and gown.

She held him with her witch's stare
(A sweet, child-look--it witched him well!)
Upon his lip she froze the prayer,
And in his ear she breathed a spell.

He babbled ever of her name
And of her brow that gleamed like dawn,
And of her lips--a lovely shame
No holy man should think upon.

They hunted her along the sea,
"Witch, Witch!" they cried and hissed their hate--
Her hair unbound fell to her knee
And made a glory where she sate.

Her song she hushed and, wonder-eyed,
She gazed upon their bell and book;
The zealous priests were fain to hide
Lest they be holden by her look.

Most innocent she seemed to be
("The Devil's sly!" the fathers say)
Her eyes were dreaming eyes that see
Things strange and fair and far away.

They stood her in the judgment hall.
"Confess," they cried, "the blasting spell
That holds yon crazed monk in thrall?"
"Good sirs," she said, "he loved me well."

They haled her to a witch's doom,
They matched her shining hair with flame--
But ever through the cloister's gloom
The mad monk babbles of her name!

And, when the red sun droppeth down
And wet sand gleameth ghostily,
Men see her weave a sea-weed crown
Between the twilight and the sea.

Fairy Singing

SHE was my love and the pulse of my heart; Lovely she was as the flowers that start Straight to the sun from the earth's tender breast, Sweet as the wind blowing out of the west-- Elana, Elana, my strong one, my white one, Soft be the wind blowing over your rest!

She crept to my side
In the cold mist of morning.
"O wirra" she cried,
"'Tis farewell now, mavourneen!
When the crescent moon hung
Like a scythe in the sky,
I heard in the silence
The Little Folks cry.

"'Twas like a low sighing,
A sobbing, a singing;
It came from the west,
Where the low moon was swinging:
'Elana, Elana'
Was all of their crying.
Mavrone! I must go--
To refuse them, I dare not.
Alone I must go;
They have called and they care not--
Naught do they care that they call me apart
From the warmth and the light and the love of your heart.
Hark! How their singing
Comes winging, comes winging,
Through your close arms, beloved,
Straight to my heart!"

White grew her face as the thorn's tender bloom, White as the mist from the valley of doom! Swift was her going--her head on my breast Drooped like a flower that winter has pressed-- Elana, Elana! My strong one, my white one! Empty the arms that your beauty had blessed.

Killed in Action

MY father lived his three-score years; my son lived twenty-two; One looked long back on work well done, and one had all to do-- Yet which the better served his world, I know not, nor do you!

Life taught my father all her lore till he grew wise and gray, She did but whisper to my son before she turned away-- Yet which her deepest secret held only they two might say.

Peace brought my father restful days, with love and fame for wage; War gave my son an unmarked grave and an unwritten page-- Who shall declare which gift conveyed the greater heritage?

Spring Came In

SPRING came in with a red-wing's feather And yellow clumps of the wild marshmallow-- O happy bird, can you tell me whether In distant France they have April weather? And little pools that are sunny and shallow?

My soul is awake and my pulse is racing-- My heart is aware that the birds are mating-- Oh, my heart's like a cloud that the wind is chasing O'er the earth's green blur with its silver tracing To that sad France where there's someone waiting!

O Spring! begone with your too-sweet clover And all your bees with honey to carry-- Come again when the war is over, Come, dear Spring, when you bring my lover! Yet come no more, should he tarry . . . tarry!

From the Trenches

OH, to be in Canada now that Spring is merry,
Happy apple blossoms gay against the smiling green;
Here the lilac's purple plume and here the pink of cherry,
Hillsides just a drift of bloom with clover in between!

Oh, to be in Canada! there's a road that rambles
Through a leafing maple-wood and up a windy hill,
Velvet pussy-willows press soft hands amid the brambles
Fringing round a sky-filled pool where cattle drink their fill.

Oh, to be in Canada! there's a farmhouse hidden
Where the hollow meets the hill and Spring's first footsteps show--
Not a drop of honey there to any bee forbidden,
Not a cherry on a tree but all the robins know!

Oh, to be in Canada, now that Spring is calling
Sweet, so sweet it breaks the heart to let its sweetness through,
Oh, to breast the windy hill while yet the dew is falling--
Waking all the meadow-larks to carol in the blue!

Smile upon us, Canada! None shall fail who love you
While they hold a memory of your fields where flowers are--
High the task to keep unstained the skies that bend above you,
Proud the life that shields you from the flaming wind of war!

The Reasons

THEY sat before a dugout In the unfamiliar quiet of silenced guns. And one said: "Now that it's over What about a bit of truth? Let us say why we came to fight-- No frills-- You first, old Fire-eater!"--

One with a whimsical face spoke freely; "I?--I sought some stir, Some urge in living, Some sense in dying. I sought a mountain top With a view!"

"And the answer?"

"I have seen others find What I sought."

. . . . . . .

"I don't know that it's anyone's business Why I came," (Another spoke as if unwillingly), "A girl laughed, I think-- Funny?--Yes, funny as hell!"--

. . . . . . .

His neighbor said, "I was a business man, No sentiment, Nothing of that kind,-- But the band played And, suddenly, I saw My country, A woman, with hands outstretched, Her back to the wall--"

"U--um," they nodded, "She's got a pull, That old lady."

. . . . . . .

"As for me," the speaker was abrupt, "I was afraid! I saw pictures, I heard things-- I couldn't sleep For the Beast that was abroad-- Fear! That's what brought me!"

. . . . . . .

They sat silent for a moment In the sun. Then an older man said briefly, "We were all afraid . . . . . . . . But what of hate? Did no one come because of hate?"

. . . . . . .

"Yes--I"-- They looked at this man Curiously, But he added nothing, And no one questioned.

. . . . . . .

A fresh-faced boy spoke modestly; "Our family are all Army people-- So, of course-- And it's all over now. We got through. But it was a near thing-- What?"

To-Day

TO-DAY is a room With windows upon one side And upon the other A door-- Through the windows we may look But cannot pass; Through the door we must pass But cannot look, And there are no windows Upon that side.

Memory

A YEAR is a thief Who comes in the guise of a friend Saying, "Let us travel together, We have much to give each other. See, I hold back nothing-- For what is giving Between friends?"

Yet when the year departs He takes his gifts with him-- "Oh, Robber!" we cry, Aghast and weeping, "Nay," he replies, "I did but lend. Still, for your weeping, I will leave you something.

It is not the real thing But you may keep it always."

Dream