On Woman
For I am not so bold
To hope a thing so dear
Now I am growing old;
But when, if the tales true,
The pestle of the moon,
That pounds up all anew,
Brings me to birth again)—
To find what once I had
And know what once I have known,
Until I am driven mad,
Sleep driven from my bed,
By tenderness and care,
Pity an aching head,
Gnashing of teeth, despair—
And all because of some one
Perverse creature of chance—
And live like Solomon
That Sheba led a dance.
THE FISHERMAN
Although I can see him still—
The freckled man who goes
To a gray place on a hill
In gray Connemara clothes
At dawn to cast his flies—
It's long since I began
To call up to the eyes
[219]
