Were you but lying cold and dead, And lights were paling out of the West, You would come hither, and bend your hea… And I would lay my head on your breast; And you would murmur tender words,

THERE all the golden codgers lay, There the silver dew, And the great water sighed for love, And the wind sighed too. Man-picker Niamh leant and sighed

I AM tired of cursing the Bishop, (Said Crazy Jane) Nine books or nine hats Would not make him a man. I have found something worse

YOU gave, but will not give again Until enough of paudeen’s pence By Biddy’s halfpennies have lain To be 'some sort of evidence’, Before you’ll put your guineas down,

SHE might, so noble from head To great shapely knees, The long flowing line, Have walked to the altar Through the holy images

Between extremities Man runs his course; A brand, or flaming breath. Comes to destroy All those antinomies

You gave, but will not give again Until enough of paudeen’s pence By Biddy’s halfpennies have lain To be 'some sort of evidence’, Before you’ll put your guineas down,

O cloud-pale eyelids, dream-dimmed eyes, The poets labouring all their days To build a perfect beauty in rhyme Are overthrown by a woman’s gaze And by the unlabouring brood of the skie…

I, proclaiming that there is Among birds or beasts or men One that is perfect or at peace. Danced on Cruachan’s windy plain, Upon Cro-patrick sang aloud;

Whence did all that fury come? From empty tomb or Virgin womb? Saint Joseph thought the world would me… But liked the way his finger smelt.

I have met them at close of day Coming with vivid faces From counter or desk among grey Eighteenth-century houses. I have passed with a nod of the head