Good Father John O’Hart

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths

Half close your eyelids, loosen your hair

Has no one said those daring

He stood among a crowd at Drumahair

Hope that you may understand!

How should the world be luckier if this house

Hurry to bless the hands that play

I bring you with reverent hands

I cried when the moon was murmuring to the birds

I dreamed that I stood in a valley, and amid sighs

I dreamed that one had died in a strange place

If any man drew near

If Michael, leader of God’s host

If this importunate heart trouble your peace

If you have revisited the town, thin Shade

I had a chair at every hearth

I had this thought a while ago

I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young

I have heard the pigeons of the Seven Woods

I have no happiness in dreaming of Brycelinde

I heard the old, old men say

I hear the Shadowy Horses, their long manes a-shake

I made my song a coat

Indignant at the fumbling wits, the obscure spite

I passed along the water’s edge below the humid trees

I rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blow

I sat on cushioned otter skin

I swayed upon the gaudy stern

I thought of your beauty, and this arrow

I wander by the edge

I went out to the hazel wood

I whispered, ‘I am too young,’

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree

I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea!

Know, that I would accounted be

My Mother dandled me and sang

Now all the truth is out

Now as at all times I can see in the minds eye

“Now lay me in a cushioned chair”

Now must I these three praise—

O cloud-pale eyelids, dream-dimmed eyes

O colleens, kneeling by your altar rails long hence

O curlew, cry no more in the air

O’Driscoll drove with a song

Oh, heart, be at peace, because

Once, when midnight smote the air

One that is ever kind said yesterday

O sweet everlasting Voices, be still

Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn

Out yonder, where the Race Course is

O what to me the little room

O where is our Mother of Peace

Pale brows, still hands and dim hair

Pardon, old fathers, if you still remain

Poets with whom I learned my trade

Pour wine and dance if Manhood still have pride

‘Put off that mask of burning gold’

Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days!

Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World!

Send peace on all the lands and flickering corn.—

She lived in storm and strife

Shy one, shy one

Sickness brought me this

Some may have blamed you that you took away

Suddenly I saw the cold and rook-delighting Heaven

The angels are stooping