Classic Poem

High in the whitish speckling of the dawn
Above undarkening bog the skylark's song
Thrilled dew out of the air and by the lakes
Ripple of osiers rustled. A light rain crossed
The grey gap of the wind and down in glens
New leaves of sally were stirring where hidden bees
Fat wintered honey and the streamlets swam
Around the inches, snow-blossomed by the sloe,
Into every creek.
Soon from the vales
Of Uladh came the joyous song of hunters
Calling above the drench of branches —
" Oro!
Brighten, bring the spears o' the Spring
And while the thrushes sing, good women sweep
Your floors, gather for your mats the morning reeds
And spin your wool: for over Slieverea
Hawked sunrays hover in the water-light
Beyond the grousy heather and herons wade
From river gravel. Who twist the heavy fish
With sallies peeled from Druim-da-leish, who steal out
To chase bewildered wings when they can hear
The mountain boar? O then the giollas whisk
Their beagles through the grass when the rain souses
The boughs of hazel and clambering the rocks
Climb nearer the drowsing eagle.
O the clean green spears
O' the Springtime!
Far away their voices hunted
Along the sky while women at their half-doors
Sat turning their spindles. There on a fine day
Dectora, the sister of the King, hurried with
A song to spin an April dream on her distaff
And when at dusk the stars and corncrakes came
And candles were lit within her broidered grianan
She sweetly called:
" My women, tell old ranns
Of love around me, now children are abed,
And tell of Kings, and warriors long ago
That loved."
And to herself she said: " I'll think
Of Sualtim, sworded he is, and his brave voice
Deep as a hound's and fierce: perhaps he rules
Beyond his galloping men to swerve aside and
Wonder about me. To-morrow I will bind
My hair with an ornamental brooch, come out
Into the sun and look on him, if he be king'd
Above his clan."
And so they told
Old ranns their spinning-wheels heard long ago —
How Aongus sang and sorrowed for his love
A hundred years in a forgotten wood
Beside the Boyne and saw through leafy ways
Her mournful gaze and how they sweetly flew
By lake and hazelwood as sad white swans
Seeking an island creek where sallies hang
Above the floating stars, these ancient tales
Of love; how Etaun came from a sidhe-mound
When the dawnlight in the pale cold east
Drew the frail watery blossom through the bare
Branch of the sloe and gave her love to rouse
Grave Eochaid Baun with joy — but sorrow came;
Midir, her fairy spouse hid in Moymell,
Climbed like a falcon the ridge of the world
And standing in the royal dun, a proud
Tall yellow-bearded king from a strange land,
Claimed her, sweet-named, and her red hungered lips
Knew his, how unsighted by tears she ran to him
Murmuring fears and into their own past
They vanished from the cry of rowdy spears,
And staring crowds heard in the raftered air
Sorrowful laughter following them; tales
Of the great Danaan kings, of silver Nuada
Isled in a southern lake, of Lugh the proud,
The lonely, wandering through the woods; and Dectora
Knowing she was most beautiful in Ulad,
Laughed lowly and murmured with the beading rushlight
For companies who walked in rain-green woods
And raised her head with pride; for these were the days
When Deirdre, the sorrowful, was unborn;
She, too, in a stray glen would hear these tales
And cry for the old loves nor know herself
More beautiful and that cold woman would heap
Treasure of kings around her naked feet,
Raiment of grass-green wool and silver deerskin,
And lift a lonely jewel on her brow
To be a queen, nor how in torchlit Emain
Fearing her beauty more than Concobar
Between his leering spears and wild with love
She would know the sorrow of a leaning sail
Upon brown waters and, in her love and weary,
Trouble the piteous spears of goodly clans
And bring them death and Uladh's mighty kingdom,
Ruin, but these were the showery days of spring
When Dectora was beautiful in Uladh,
Dectora who was now proud and drowsed with ranns
Of the Sidhe and murmuring:
" These are
Old stories of the woods and of old loves
And some, though kings, unhappy, unbeloved,"
Being half asleep.
But in the darker hour
Her bed growing strange with dreams of man, she got up,
Washed, bathed her flowers, then wandered, tall, long-legged,
Amid the royal ferns. . . .
" Where has she gone?"
Her women came out into the grassy morning
Calling her and the hawklings rose from the wood
Beyond them. Rushing down the rocky valley
They sobbed among the grumbling kerns and pulled
Their uncombed hair, moaning, " Mavrone!
Mavrone!"
A man looked from thin trees, his thin eye
Green as a crow's and cried:
" Wailing women,
At dawn the toilers in their stony furrows
Along a hillside saw your mistress borne in
A litter towards the south."
A tumult rose
For through the rumble of air a great car
Drove and a voice resounded through the glen:
" Who are these women keening by the woods?"
A soldier saluted from his post:
" Arch-druid,
They wail for Dectora, the sister of the King!"
And on the heights of Emain Macha weapons
Flashed evil light far away.
At darkfall,
Wrapped in their bratta, the chieftains assembled
And tows at the unsteady edge of the gusts
Flung thicker blackness around them. They seemed mighty
As Firbolgs coming out of their sea-cairns
Beyond the Rath of Druids. The bellowing
Of haltered bulls moved slowly towards them from
The distant plain as churlish Briccriu cried:

" Warriors! It is this haughty Maeve,
This tall-speared queen pacing behind walls of
Her western stronghold, forehead banded with bronze,
Her big breasts heavy with no woman's milk
But ancient hate, this Maeve, whose jealousy
Watches the mountains of the north, tops them
With wordy cromlechs, it is she who has laid
The hand of spies on Dectora. I hear
Challenge of conquest. Sualtem, this is
No girl-warmed bed, but war!"
Out of the night
Rose Sualtem looking on him with strange eyes,
Blood on his beard. Around him Celthach,
Illaun and Imrinn, his champions, shouldered, but as
He raged, chanting was heard from Emain Macha:
" Great King, the sounding bronze is druidless,
The torch-lit waters darken, smoke is heavy
With blood of slaves, the Lia Fail is mute;
For Dectora is now invisible.
But let an unarmed stranger seek for tidings
Of her and return to Emain Macha when
The mountain-ash is redder than the dawn!"