Author's Poems

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Ask Me No More

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;
The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape,
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;
But o too fond, when have I answer'd thee?
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:
Yet, o my friend, I will not have thee die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd:
I strove against the stream and all in vain:
Let the great river take me to the main:
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;
Ask me no more.
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    Under Ben Bulben

    Irish poets, earn your trade,
    Sing whatever is well made,
    Scorn the sort now growing up
    All out of shape from toe to top,
    Their unremembering hearts and heads
    Base-born products of base beds.
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      The Rose Of The World

      Bow down, archangels, in your dim abode:
      Before you were, or any hearts to beat,
      Weary and kind one lingered by His seat;
      He made the world to be a grassy road
      Before her wandering feet.
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        A Tragedy

        Who's that walking on the moorland?
        Who's that moving on the hill?
        They are passing 'mid the bracken,
        But the shadows grow and blacken
        And I cannot see them clearly on the hill.

        Who's that calling on the moorland?
        Who's that crying on the hill?
        Was it bird or was it human,
        Was it child, or man, or woman,
        Who was calling so sadly on the hill?

        Who's that running on the moorland?
        Who's that flying on the hill?
        He is there - and there again,
        But you cannot see him plain,
        For the shadow lies so darkly on the hill.

        What's that lying in the heather?
        What's that lurking on the hill?
        My horse will go no nearer,
        And I cannot see it clearer,
        But there's something that is lying on the hill.
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          To A Young Beauty

          I know what wages beauty gives,
          How hard a life her servant lives,
          Yet praise the winters gone:
          There is not a fool can call me friend,
          And I may dine at journey's end
          With Landor and with Donne.
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            The Rose

            Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days!
            Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways:
            Cuchulain battling with the bitter tide;
            The Druid, grey, wood-nurtured, quiet-eyed,
            Who cast round Fergus dreams, and ruin untold.
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              Often Rebuked, Yet Always Back Returning

              Often rebuked, yet always back returning
              To those first feelings that were born with me,
              And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning
              For idle dreams of things which cannot be:
              To-day, I will seek not the shadowy region;
              Its unsustaining vastness waxes drear;
              And visions rising, legion after legion,
              Bring the unreal world too strangely near.

              I'll walk, but not in old heroic traces,
              And not in paths of high morality,
              And not among the half-distinguished faces,
              The clouded forms of long-past history.

              I'll walk where my own nature would be leading:
              It vexes me to choose another guide:
              Where the gray flocks in ferny glens are feeding;
              Where the wild wind blows on the mountain side

              What have those lonely mountains worth revealing?
              More glory and more grief than I can tell:
              The earth that wakes one human heart to feeling
              Can centre both the worlds of Heaven and Hell.
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                Each night he must
                be carried through artificial tunnels and dream recurrent dreams.
                Just as the ties recur beneath his train, these underlie
                his rushing brain. He does not dare look out the window,
                for the third rail, the unbroken draught of poison,
                runs there beside him. He regards it as a disease
                he has inherited the susceptibility to. He has to keep
                his hands in his pockets, as others must wear mufflers.
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