The Lost Heifer
When the black herds of the rain were grazing, In the gap of the pure cold wind And the watery hazes of the hazel Brought her into my mind, I thought of the last honey by the water That no hive can find. Brightness was drenching through the branches When she wandered again, Turning sliver out of dark grasses Where the skylark had lain, And her voice coming softly over the meadow Was the mist becoming rain.
The Blackbird of Derrycairn
Stop, stop and listen for the bough top Is whistling and the sun is brighter Than God's own shadow in the cup now Forget the hour bell. Mournful matins Will sound as well, Patric, at nightfall. Faintly through mist of broken water Fionn heard my melody in Norway, He found the forest track he brought back This beak to gild the branch and tell there Why men must welcome in the daylight. He loved the breeze that warns the black grouse, The shout of gillies in the morning When packs are counted and the swans cloud Loch Erne, but more than all those voices, My throat rejoicing from the hawthorn. In little cells behind a cashel, Patric, no handbell has a glad sound, But knowledge is found among the branches. Listen! The song that shakes my feathers Will thong the leather of your satchels. Stop, stop and listen for the bough top Is whistling . . .
The Planters Daughter
When night stirred at sea, An the fire brought a crowd in They say that her beauty Was music in mouth And few in the candlelight Thought her too proud, For the house of the planter Is known by the trees. Men that had seen her Drank deep and were silent, The women were speaking Wherever she went -- As a bell that is rung Or a wonder told shyly And O she was the Sunday In every week.