FASTEN your hair with a golden
And bind up every wandering tress;
I bade my heart build these poor r
It worked at them, day out, day in
Building a sorrowful loveliness

The harlot sang to the beggar-man.
I meet them face to face,
Conall, Cuchulain, Usna’s boys,
All that most ancient race;
Maeve had three in an hour, they s

POETRY, music, I have loved, an
Because of those new dead
That come into my soul and escape
Confusion of the bed,
Or those begotten or unbegotten

GOD guard me from those thoughts
In the mind alone;
He that sings a lasting song
Thinks in a marrow-bone;
From all that makes a wise old man

THERE is grey in your hair.
Young men no longer suddenly catch
When you are passing;
But maybe some old gaffer mutters
Because it was your prayer

FASTEN your hair with a golden
And bind up every wandering tress;
I bade my heart build these poor r
It worked at them, day out, day in
Building a sorrowful loveliness

That civilisation may not sink,
Its great battle lost,
Quiet the dog, tether the pony
To a distant post;
Our master Caesar is in the tent

SOME may have blamed you that yo
The verses that could move them on
When, the ears being deafened, the
With lightning, you went from me,
Nothing to make a song about but k

The jester walked in the garden:
The garden had fallen still;
He bade his soul rise upward
And stand on her window—sill.
It rose in a straight blue garment

THE old brown thorn-trees break i
Under a bitter black wind that blo
Our courage breaks like an old tre
But we have hidden in our hearts t
Of Cathleen, the daughter of Houl