Classic Poem

Ode 1.22

PUTS IT INTO THE IDIOM OF THE ARRAN ISLANDS

And it's himself that should have no call to be fearing hard words or bitter blows or evil gossip or to be destroyed by the blow of a loy, itself—he, after living a good life and a fine one. Many's the night I have walked whistling along a twisty road with no light ahead and no light behind, and only a slip of a moon, like the youngest of the angels, timid and bobbing before me. And sometimes, maybe, it would be in a wood I'd find myself, fearing no wolves or any living thing at all, but would be after dreaming of grand evenings in houses of gold or be listening to the young girls and young men making mighty talk. And there'd be little stirring but the sound of laughter far off—and I lifting my voice in lonely song. Ah, it's a great blessing, I'm saying, to be pure of heart and to have the sweetness of youth and the lonely wisdom of the old. And it's a better thing, I'm thinking, to have the grand gift of song; to be singing even when the suns of June do be broiling or the bitter winds do be blowing on me, till I'd feel my blood stopping like a small stream in the winter nights. For it's the singer that's young and wise, and the sweetness of all the ages is given to him, surely.EnglishShort Poems