Now must I these three praise— Three women that have wrought What joy is in my days: One because no thought, Nor those unpassing cares,

A crazy man that found a cup, When all but dead of thirst, Hardly dared to wet his mouth Imagining, moon-accursed, That another mouthful

TOIL and grow rich, What’s that but to lie With a foul witch And after, drained dry, To be brought

DEAR fellow-artist, why so free With every sort of company, With every Jack and Jill? Choose your companions from the best; Who draws a bucket with the rest

COME swish around, my pretty punk, And keep me dancing still That I may stay a sober man Although I drink my fill. Sobriety is a jewel

I have old women’s secrets now That had those of the young; Madge tells me what I dared not think When my blood was strong, And what had drowned a lover once

BECAUSE I am mad about women I am mad about the hills,’ Said that wild old wicked man Who travels where God wills. ‘Not to die on the straw at home.

BELOVED, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there; From joy the holy branches start, And all the trembling flowers they bear. The changing colours of its fruit

SWEETHEART, do not love too long: I loved long and long, And grew to be out of fashion Like an old song. All through the years of our youth

Surely among a rich man s flowering lawn… Amid the rustle of his planted hills, Life overflows without ambitious pains; And rains down life until the basin spil… And mounts more dizzy high the more it r…

‘Lay me in a cushioned chair; Carry me, ye four, With cushions here and cushions there, To see the world once more. ’To stable and to kennel go;

Things out of perfection sail, And all their swelling canvas wear, Nor shall the self-begotten fail Though fantastic men suppose Building-yard and stormy shore,

I SAY that Roger Casement Did what he had to do. He died upon the gallows, But that is nothing new. Afraid they might be beaten