OIRELAND, dark-hooded in sea-fog and mist And thy feet lapped around by the pitiless sea, And thy harpstrings, broken and trailed in the wind, And thy fangless watch-hound, looking afar; The white of thy forehead is smitten with signs, Not the seals of the quick, as thy father Phoenicians bore, But dark cicatrized with the time wounds and pain, Which fester, but gleam with a light and a hope, Who speaketh of thee? Flotsam and waif on Time's eternal sea, In faded gold the mariners read afar Thy name, and think of old-time legendaries, But deem thee unworthy to pick up or save; Derelict of Ocean; its tumultuous throngs, Shuttles that weave betwixt the old and new, Wind in the warp and woof of mighty emperies, Thou alone untouched, as plague-stricken, Who careth for thee? Grey, dead hands point from out thy well-filled graves, Stately thy turrets, that tremble not, nor break; Though lichened crosses lean with weight of years And stretch them listless through the dust-strewn grass; And thou a leaf from the black-lettered past Of vanished chivalry, swiftly vanished faiths? But, for it hurts the eye to study thee, The soul to watch thy illustrations dread, Men turn from thee. Wizards in valleys, ghosts in lofty towers, Grey keeps o'erhanging lonely, inky lakes; Spirits clank up the green and granite stairs That lead from sea-wash to enchanted moat. Art thou enchanted? Smitten into stone By some fell wizard in a far-off time? And the puissant word that melts or wakes From gloomy trance and staring impotence, Who'll speak to thee? Are thy transgressions wreathen round thy head? Do they come up, and fall upon thy neck? Hath God poured out His fury like to fire? And set thee in dark places, like the dead? Wounded to death, like some poor, timorous thing, Seekest thou sepulchres of slime and dust To hide thy head, and nurse thy mortal hurt, And let thy memory pass from living men, Who shudder at thee? And yet one child of thine will prophesy, Not smitten with a pythoness's rage, But watching the unrolling of the scroll, That Time, God's child, is stealing from God's hand; -- Thou, the Elect, for thou hast passed through fire; Thou, the encrowned, for Thou hast tasted woe; Thou shalt yet speak, and all the world will hear; And all with foreheads drooped and downcast eyes, Shall haste to thy beck, O Sybil of the Seas, And worship thee! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GREEN MOUNTAIN IDYL by HAYDEN CARRUTH I'VE NOTHING TO OFFER by DAVID IGNATOW CREDO by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DOWN BY THE CARIB SEA: 5. THE DANCING GIRL by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON THE LANDSCAPE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS HOMAGE TO SEXTUS PROPERTIUS: 4. DIFFERENCE OF OPINION WITH LYGDAMUS by EZRA POUND |