ІІ 

але не ті красоти доброчесні

V

моїм колінам древнім вже несила
але в цій жінці в домі тім гостиннім
де честь жила усе біда посіла
бездітним я гадав "речей коріння
тут діти знайдуть" та не вчулось дім упав
тепер не плачу я коли кінець настав
не мешкать лису в щирій хижці борсука

VI

(гадав так Спенсер люди так вважали)
Августа я Сінґ разом міркували
доробок наш пісні промови мали
зрости на ріднім ґрунті витривалі
немов Антей що дужим ріс з землі
до неба й нашу відданість роботі
ми в час модерний крізь життя несли
для мрій шляхетних і утіх бідноті

VII

аж ось Джон Синґ, що в грунті корінь має
"забув людські слова" дотла хмурний
хто з вас до мене з судом приступає
за книги лиш мене не осуди
прийди і сам вдивись в обличчя друзям
в ірландській вічності на виспі жити їм
утиш ходу скажи в чім слави горді узи
того хто другом був поетам і святим

I

Around me the images of thirty years:
An ambush; pilgrims at the water-side;
Casement upon trial, half hidden by the bars,
Guarded; Griffith staring in hysterical pride;
Kevin O’Higgins’ countenance that wears
A gentle questioning look that cannot hide
A soul incapable of remorse or rest;
A revolutionary soldier kneeling to be blessed;


II

An Abbot or Archbishop with an upraised hand
Blessing the Tricolour. ‘This is not,’ I say,
‘The dead Ireland of my youth, but an Ireland
The poets have imagined, terrible and gay.’
Before a woman’s portrait suddenly I stand,
Beautiful and gentle in her Venetian way.
I met her all but fifty years ago
For twenty minutes in some studio.


III

Heart-smitten with emotion I Sink down,
My heart recovering with covered eyes;
Wherever I had looked I had looked upon
My permanent or impermanent images:
Augusta Gregory’s son; her sister’s son,
Hugh Lane, ‘onlie begetter’ of all these;
Hazel Lavery living and dying, that tale
As though some ballad-singer had sung it all;

IV

Mancini’s portrait of Augusta Gregory,
‘Greatest since Rembrandt,’ according to John Synge;
A great ebullient portrait certainly;
But where is the brush that could show anything
Of all that pride and that humility?
And I am in despair that time may bring
Approved patterns of women or of men
But not that selfsame excellence again.


V

My mediaeval knees lack health until they bend,
But in that woman, in that household where
Honour had lived so long, all lacking found.
Childless I thought, ‘My children may find here
Deep-rooted things,’ but never foresaw its end,
And now that end has come I have not wept;
No fox can foul the lair the badger swept—


VI

(An image out of Spenser and the common tongue).
John Synge, I and Augusta Gregory, thought
All that we did, all that we said or sang
Must come from contact with the soil, from that
Contact everything Antaeus-like grew strong.
We three alone in modern times had brought
Everything down to that sole test again,
Dream of the noble and the beggar-man.
VII

And here’s John Synge himself, that rooted man,
‘Forgetting human words,’ a grave deep face.
You that would judge me, do not judge alone
This book or that, come to this hallowed place
Where my friends’ portraits hang and look thereon;
Ireland’s history in their lineaments trace;
Think where man’s glory most begins and ends,
And say my glory was I had such friends.

1938