Conscientious Objector

I shall die, but
that is all that I shall do for Death.
I hear him leading his horse out of the stall;
I hear the clatter on the barn-floor.
He is in haste; he has business in Cuba,
business in the Balkans, many calls to make this morning.
But I will not hold the bridle
while he clinches the girth.
And he may mount by himself:
I will not give him a leg up.

Though he flick my shoulders with his whip,
I will not tell him which way the fox ran.
With his hoof on my breast, I will not tell him where
the black boy hides in the swamp.
I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death;
I am not on his pay-roll.

I will not tell him the whereabout of my friends
nor of my enemies either.
Though he promise me much,
I will not map him the route to any man's door.
Am I a spy in the land of the living,
that I should deliver men to Death?
Brother, the password and the plans of our city
are safe with me; never through me Shall you be overcome.
 

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Quote:

Quote:

If you will not fight for right when you can easily win without blood shed; if you will not fight when your victory is sure and not too costly; you may come to the moment when you will have to fight with all the odds against you and only a precarious chance of survival. 

There may even be a worse case. 

You may have to fight when there is no hope of victory, because it is better to perish than to live as slaves. 

The New St George

The time has come for action
Leave your satisfaction
Can't you hear St. George's tune
When George's tune is calling you on?

Freedom was your mother
Fight for one another
Leave the factory, leave the forge
And dance to the new St. George

Don't believe pretenders
Who say they would defend us
While they flash their teeth and wave
The other hand is being paid

They choke the air and bleed us
These noble men who lead us
Leave the factory, leave the forge
And dance to the new St. George

The fish and fowl are ailing
The farmer's life is failing
Where are all the back room boys?
The back room boys can save us now

We're poisoned by the greedy
Who plunder on the needy
Leave the factory, leave the forge
And dance to the new St. George.



Richard Thompson

Disabled

He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.

About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees,
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,-
In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim
Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands.
All of them touch him like some queer disease.

There was an artist silly for his face,
For it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now, he is old; his back will never brace;
He's lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race
And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.

One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg,
After the matches, carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
He thought he'd better join. - He wonders why.
Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts,
That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,
Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts
He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
Smiling they wrote his lie: aged nineteen years.

Germans he scarcely thought of; all their guilt,
And Austria's, did not move him. And no fears
Of Fear came yet. He drought of jewelled hills
For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.

Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
Thanked him; and then enquired about his soul.

Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes,
And do what things the rules consider wise,
And take whatever pity they may dole.
Tonight he noticed how the women's eyes
Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
And put him into bed? Why don't they come?
 

Wilfred Owen

I Believe

I believe that the sun shines after the rain
I believe if you don't get hurt you'll never gain
I believe in not doing things the easy way
I believe that being selfish doesn’t pay

I believe in a second chance
I believe in a life long romance
I believe there is life after death
And standing up to a life of mess

I believe in love at first sight
I believe that revenge isn’t right
I believe that first impressions last
And there is nothing better then a good laugh

I believe that dreams do come true
I believe there's destiny for me and you
I believe that good things come to those who wait
I believe love never arrives too late

I believe something good comes from something bad
I believe that for tears of happiness there are tears of sad
I believe everyone has a guardian angel
And the good you do will be rewarded well

I believe sometimes there is no explanation
I believe money can't buy people's affection
I believe you don't know what you've got until it's gone
I believe a new day arrives with every dawn

I believe a smile can be contagious
I believe in being very outrageous
I believe in living with no regrets
I believe that life is as good as it gets

I believe that God watches over us
I believe the little things are worth the fuss
I believe you have each friend for a reason
I believe you will get punished for treason

I believe that what comes first is family
I believe we should all live in harmony
I believe in making the most of a beautiful day
And it's not the end until everything's okay

I believe absence makes the heart grow fonder
I believe you will lose if you sit and wonder
I believe every experience teaches you a lesson
And nothing cures better then a drinking session

I believe everyone has one true love
I believe sometimes we need a little shove
I believe the whole world is a stage
I believe we only get better with age

I believe that to learn you have to live
I believe that to love someone you have to give
I believe one moment can change your life
And there's still help when you’re in strife

I believe everyone has one true friend
I believe love helps a broken heart mend
I believe in the power of a song
And things will change before too long

I believe living is the best experience
I believe in not laughing at other people’s expense
I believe it’s hard to watch a lover leave
And when they’re gone all you can do is breath

I believe to always look on the bright side
I believe that life is just one big ride
I believe when I die people will grieve
But it’s ok because I believe


Kayla Neil

The House of Orange

I took back my hand and I showed him the door
No dollar of mine would I part with this day
For fueling the engines of bloody cruel war
In my forefather's land far away.
Who fled the first Famine wearing all that they owned,
Were called 'Navigators', all ragged and torn,
And built the Grand Trunk here, and found a new home
Wherever their children were born.

Their sons have no politics. None call recall
Allegiance from long generations before.
O'this or O'that name just can't mean a thing
Or be cause enough for to war.
And meanwhile my babies are safe in their home,
Unlike their pale cousins who shiver and cry
While kneecappers nail their poor Dads to the floor
And teach them to hate and to die.

It's those cruel beggars who spurn the fair coin.
The peace for their kids they could take at their will.
Since the day old King Billy prevailed at the Boyne,
They've bombed and they've slain and they've killed.
Now they cry out for money and wail at the door
But Home Rule or Republic, 'tis all of it shame;
And a curse for us here who want nothing of war.
We're kindred in nothing but name.

All rights and all wrongs have long since blown away,
For causes are ashes where children lie slain.
Yet the damned U.D.I and the cruel I.R.A.
Will tomorrow go murdering again.
But no penny of mine will I add to the fray.
"Remember the Boyne!" they will cry out in vain,
For I've given my heart to the place I was born
And forgiven the whole House of Orange
King Billy and the whole House of Orange.

Stan Rogers.

The Hosting Of The Sidhe

The host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare;
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away:
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
We come between him and the hope of his heart.
The host is rushing 'twixt night and day,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away.

William Butler Yeats

 The Sidhe

When the moon is full
On a starless night
A lone Sidhe puts his lips to the horn
And he begins to blow

The music echoes through the fog
Each Sidhe picks up the song
The grey horses lift their ears
Answer the call, then begins to run across the bog

They ride in the wild hunt
Strange wild and free
The mist roils as they fly
Everyone douth flee

They ride through the forest dark
The ground is hard
They kill on a lark
Full of the battle lust

A fire burns inside their hearts
Driving others to pain
They destroy, they hurt
For nothing to gain

When the moon is full
On a starless night
A lone Sidhe puts his lips to the horn
And he begins to blow

 The Legend of Tír na nÓg


Long ago, on an isle of emerald green, surrounded by a sea of azure blue, there lived a young man named Oisín.

Oisín liked to explore the moors with the Fianna the name of a band of ancient warrior-hunters and defenders of Ireland.

One day, when Oisín and the Fianna were out hunting, they saw an extraordinary sight. It was a beautiful young woman with long red hair, riding on a spirited white mare. The sun glistened off the maiden's hair, casting a magical golden light.

The mare's movements were so fluid that she appeared to float across the ground. As her rider brought her to a stop before the group, the horse's hooves struck at the field stones impatiently, sending small sparks into the air.

"My name is Niamh," the woman said, in a voice that sounded like the music of a harp. "My father is the king of Tír na nÓg."

Oisín stepped forward from the group of hunters to welcome the rider. As his eyes met Niamh's, they fell in love.

"Come with me to Tír na nÓg," Niamh pleaded to her new found love. After only a moment's hesitation, Oisín swung up behind Niamh onto the white horse.

Together, they crossed the sea to Tír na nÓg.

Having grown up on the Emerald Isle, Oisín would never have believed that a more beautiful land existed. But, as he gazed upon Tír na nÓg, he was stunned by the beauty around him.

In this magical land, Niamh and Oisín built a life together. They spent each day exploring Tír na nÓg with the white mare. Niamh and Oisín's love grew deeper as Niamh shared the beauty of her enchanted homeland.

300 years passed as though it were but a single day. No one in Tír na nÓg ever grew old or fell sick. They lived in endless, youthful moments filled with happiness.

In spite of the beauty of the land and the deep love that Niamh and Oisín shared for each other, a small part of Oisín's soul knew loneliness.

Such feelings were unheard of in Tír na nÓg but in spite of her efforts, Niamh was unable to ease Oisín's loneliness.

So, when Oisín came to Niamh and told her of his desire to return to Ireland to see his family and the Fianna again, she could not hold him back.

"All right," said Niamh. "Return to Ireland on the back of the white mare. But my dear, your foot must not touch the soil of Ireland!"

Immediately Oisín rode the white horse back across the sea to the land of his birth.

As soon as the mare's hooves touched Ireland's soil, Oisín realized how much the land had changed. Oisín's family and friends had long passed away. Their grand castle was over grown with ivy.

Oisín was so caught up in his quest to find his family and his grief at their loss, that he forgot to care for the beautiful white horse. In spite of her hunger and fatigue she continued to respond to her rider.

Finally, with a sad heart, Oisín turned the mare back toward the sea to return to Tír na nÓg.

Approaching the sea, he came upon a group of men working in a field. As the mare reached the group, her fatigue caused her to stumble. Her hoof hit a stone. Oisín bent down to pick up the rock, planning to take it to Tír na nÓg. He was sure that it would ease his sadness to carry a piece of Ireland back with him.

But as his hand grasped the stone, Oisín lost his balance and fell to the ground.

Within moments, Oisín aged 300 years.

Without her rider, the mare reared up and rushed into the ocean, returning to Tír na nÓg and her beloved Niamh.

When the men in the field witnessed this, they were amazed. Not only had they seen a young man age before their eyes, they had also seen a tired old plow horse transformed into a beautiful silver-white mare, who raced into the sea.

The men went to Oisín's aid and carried him to St. Patrick.

When Oisín met St. Patrick, he told Patrick of the his family and the Fianna, who had disappeared from Ireland almost 300 years before. Then he told St. Patrick of Niamh and the magical land of Tír na nÓg.

As Oisín ended his story, a great weariness swept over him and he closed his eyes in eternal slumber.

Even to this day, the fishermen and lighthouse keepers still tell of foggy nights when the moon is full, and they see a shimmering white horse dancing in the waves along the shores of Ireland. Some say that the red-haired maiden who rides the horse still searches for Oisín.

Approximate pronunciation guide
Fionn – Fyonn
Oisín – Ush-een
Eachtra – Acht-tra
Niamh Chinn Óir – Nee-ve keen ore
Fianna- fee-anna
Gleann na Smól - Glan nah Smole (valley of the thrushes)

TÍR NA nÓG

Fadó fadó Éirinn, roimh theacht don nua-aois,
Bhí conaí ann ar an bhFiann,
Fionn 's a mhac Oisín
Is iomaí eachtra a bhain leo siúd,
Is iomaí casadh croí,
Ach ní dhéanfar dearmad ar an lá
A bhuail Oisín le Niamh.

Niamh Chinn Ór, as Tír na nÓg,
B'í an bhean ab áille gné a chas ar Oisín Óg
Mheall í é le breathacht,
Mheall sí é le póg,
Mheall sí é gan aon agó
Go Tír na nÓg
Bhí Oisín, lá brea gréine,
Ag siúl le ciumhais na habhann
' Measc blathanna buí, is luachra,
Taibhsíodh dó an tsamhail,
Spéirbhean ghléigeal álainn
A d'fhag croí an laoich sin fann,
Thug cuireadh dó go ír na nÓg
Go síoraí cónaí ann.

Tír álainn, tír na hóige,
Tír dhiamhair aislingí
Trí chéad bliain chaith Oisín ann
I ngrá mór le Niamh
Ach fonn nár fhág é choíche,
Is nach bhféadfadh sé a chloí,
Dul thar n-ais go hÉirinn,
Go bhfeichfeadh sé í arís.

"Ná fág an áit seo," arsa Niamh
"Ná himigh uaim, a chroí"
"Ma fhágann tusa Tír na nÓg,
Nó fhillfidh tú arís."
Ach d'fhill Oisín ar Éirinn,
Mar bhí fiabhras ina chroí
Is fuair sé bás ós comhair an Naoimh
B'shin deireadh lena thriall.
Tír na nÓg, ó Tír na nÓg,
Tír uasal na draíochta a bhí ann fadó,
Féach thiar ansin í
Thiar ar fhíor na spéire
San áit go mba mhaith liom bheith,
Sin Tír na nÓg.

Colm Mac Séalaigh

The Donkey.

When fishes flew and forests walked
And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood
Then surely I was born.

With monstrous head and sickening cry
And ears like errant wings,
The devil's walking parody
On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet.

The Ballad Of The Carpenter


Jesus was a working man
And a hero you will hear
Born in the town of Bethlehem
At the turning of the year
At the turning of the year

When Jesus was a little lad
Streets rang with his name
For he argued with the older men
And put them all to shame
He put them all to shame

He became a wandering journeyman
And he traveled far and wide
And he noticed how wealth and poverty
Live always side by side
Live always side by side

So he said "Come you working men
Farmers and weavers too
If you would only stand as one
This world belongs to you
This world belongs to you"

When the rich men heard what the carpenter had done
To the Roman troops they ran
Saying put this rebel Jesus down
He's a menace to God and man
He's a menace to God and man

The commander of the occupying troops
Just laughed and then he said
"There's a cross to spare on Calvaries hill
By the weekend he'll be dead
By the weekend he'll be dead"

Now Jesus walked among the poor
For the poor were his own kind
And they'd never let them get near enough
To take him from behind
To take him from behind

So they hired one of the traders trade
And an informer was he
And he sold his brother to the butchers men
For a fistful of silver money
For a fistful of silver money

And Jesus sat in the prison cell
And they beat him and offered him bribes
To desert the cause of his fellow man
And work for the rich men's tribe,
To work for the rich men's tribe

And the sweat stood out on Jesus' brow
And the blood was in his eye
When they nailed his body to the Roman cross
And they laughed as they watched him die
They laughed as they watched him die

Two thousand years have passed and gone
Many a hero too
But the dream of this poor carpenter
Remains in the hands of you
Remains in the hands of you

by Phil Ochs

Boys of the Old Brigade


"Oh father, why are you so sad,
on this bright Easter morn?
When Irishmen are proud and glad
Of the land where they were born."
"Oh, son, I see sad mem'ries view
Of far-off distant days,
When, being just a boy like you,
I joined the old brigade.

Chorus:
Where are the lads who stood with me
When history was made?
Oh, gra mo chree I long to see
The Boys of the Old Brigade.

In hills and farms the call to arms
Was heard by one and all,
And from the glens came brave young men
To answer Ireland's call.
'Twas long ago we faced the foe,
The old brigade and me,
But by my side they fought and died
That Ireland might be free.

Chorus

And now, my boy, I've told you why
On Easter morn I sigh
For I recall my comrades all
From dark old days gone by,
I think of men who fought in glens
With rifles and grenade
May Heaven keep the men who sleep
From the ranks of the old brigade.

Chorus

 The Foggy Dew

I was down the glen one Easter morn
To a city fair rode I
There armed lines of marching men
In squadrons passed me by
No pipe did hum, no battle drum did sound it's loud tattoo
But the Angelus Bells o'er the Liffey swells rang out in the foggy dew
Right proudly high in Dublin town
Hung they out a flag of war

'Twas better to die 'neath that Irish sky
Than at Sulva or Sud el Bar
And from the plains of Royal Meath
Strong men came hurrying through
While Brittania's huns with their long range guns
Sailed in through the foggy dew

Their bravest fell and the requiem bell
Rang mournfully and clear
For those who died that Eastertide in the
Springing of the year

While the world did gaze with deep amaze
At those fearless men but few
Who bore the fight that freedom's light
Might shine through the foggy dew
And back through the glen
I rode again

And my heart with grief was sore
For I parted then with valiant men
Whom I never shall see n'more
But to and fro in my dreams I go
And I kneel and pray for you
For slavery fled oh glorious dead
When you fell in the foggy dew

Byzantium

The unpurged images of day recede;
The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed;
Night resonance recedes, night-walkers' song
After great cathedral gong;
A starlit or a moonlit dome disdains
All that man is,
All mere complexities,
The fury and the mire of human veins.

Before me floats an image, man or shade,
Shade more than man, more image than a shade;
For Hades' bobbin bound in mummy-cloth
May unwind the winding path;
A mouth that has no moisture and no breath
Breathless mouths may summon;
I hail the superhuman;
I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.

Miracle, bird or golden handiwork,
More miracle than bird or handiwork,
Planted on the starlit golden bough,
Can like the cocks of Hades crow,
Or, by the moon embittered, scorn aloud
In glory of changeless metal
Common bird or petal
And all complexities of mire or blood.

At midnight on the Emperor's pavement flit
Flames that no faggot feeds, nor steel has lit,
Nor storm disturbs, flames begotten of flame,
Where blood-begotten spirits come
And all complexities of fury leave,
Dying into a dance,
An agony of trance,
An agony of flame that cannot singe a sleeve.

Astraddle on the dolphin's mire and blood,
Spirit after spirit! The smithies break the flood,
The golden smithies of the Emperor!
Marbles of the dancing floor
Break bitter furies of complexity,
Those images that yet
Fresh images beget,
That dolphin-torn, that gong-tormented sea.


William Butler Yeats

Johnston's Motor Car


Down by Brockagh Corner one morning I did stray,
When I met another rebel bold, who this to me did say:
I've orders from the Captain to assemble at Drumbar
But how are we to reach Dungloe without a Motor Car?

O Barney dear, be of good cheer and I'll tell you what we'll do.
The Black and Tans have plenty guns altho' we have but few.
We'll wire down to Stranorlar before we walk so far,
And we'll give the boys a jolly ride on Johnston's Motor Car.

When Johnston got the wire then he soon pulled on his shoes.
He says this case is urgent, there's little time to lose.
He wore a fancy caster hat and on his breast a star.

You could hear the din going through Glenfin of Johnston's Motor Car.
When he came to the Reelin Bridge, he met some rebels there.
He knew the game was up with him, and at them he did stare.
He said I've got a permit for travelling out so far
You can keep your English permit, but we want your motor car.

What will my loyal comrades say when I get to Drumboe.
To say my car was commandeered by rebels from Dungloe.
We'll give you a receipt for her, its signed by Captain Maher,
And when Ireland's free, then we will see to Johnston's Motor Car.
They put the car in motion, they filled it to the brim.

With guns and bayonets shining, while Johnston he did grin.
When Barney waved a Sinn Féin flag, she shot off like a star
And they gave three cheers for freedom and for Johnston's Motor Car.
When the loyal crew they heard the news, it grieved their hearts full sore.

They swore they'd have reprisals before they would give o'er.
In vain they searched through Glenties, the Rosses and Kilcar,
While the I.R.A. their flags displayed on Johnston's Motor Car.

Buachaill Ón Éirne

Buachaill ón Éirne mé is bhrágfainn féin cailín deas óg.
Ní iarrfainn bó spré léi, tá mé féin saibhir go leor -
Is liom Corcaigh dá mhéid é,
Dhá taobh an ghleanna, is Tír Eoghain,
Is mura n-athra' mé béasaí,
Is mé an t-oidhre ar contae Mhuigheo.

Buachailleacht bó, mo leo, nár chleacht mise riamh
Ach ag imirt is ag ól le hógmhná deasa fá shliabh.
Má chaill mé mo stór
Ní móide gur cahill mé mo chiall
Is ní mó liom do phóg ná an bhróg
Atá ar caitheamh le bliain..

Rachaidh mé amárach a dhéanamh leanna fán choill,
Gan coite gan bád gan gráinín brach' ar bith liom,
Ach duilliúir na gcraobh
Mar éide leaba os mo cheann
Is óró, a sheacht m'anam déag thú,
Is tú ag féachaint orm anall.

Patriot Game 
 
Come all ye young rebels, and list while I sing,
For the love of one's country is a terrible thing.
It banishes fear with the speed of a flame,
And it makes us all part of the patriot game.

My name is O'Hanlon, and I've just turned sixteen.
My home is in Monaghan, and where I was weaned
I learned all my life cruel England's to blame,
So now I am part of the patriot game.
This Ireland of ours has too long been half free.
Six counties lie under John Bull's tyranny.

But still De Valera is greatly to blame
For shirking his part in the Patriot game.
They told me how Connolly was shot in his chair,
His wounds from the fighting all bloody and bare.
His fine body twisted, all battered and lame
They soon made me part of the patriot game.

It's nearly two years since I wandered away
With the local battalion of the bold IRA,
For I read of our heroes, and wanted the same
To play out my part in the patriot game.

I don't mind a bit if I shoot down police
They are lackeys for war never guardians of peace
And yet at deserters I'm never let aim
The rebels who sold out the patriot game
And now as I lie here, my body all holes
I think of those traitors who bargained in souls
And I wish that my rifle had given the same
To those Quislings who sold out the patriot game.

Dominic Behan

The Harp that Once Through Tara’s Halls


THE HARP that once through Tara’s halls   
  The soul of music shed,   
Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls   
  As if that soul were fled.   
So sleeps the pride of former days,           
  So glory’s thrill is o’er,   
And hearts, that once beat high for praise,   
  Now feel that pulse no more.   

No more to chiefs and ladies bright   
  The harp of Tara swells:           
The chord alone, that breaks at night,   
  Its tale of ruin tells.   
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,   
  The only throb she gives,   
Is when some heart indignant breaks,           
  To show that still she lives.


Thomas Moore

Bold Robert Emmet

 
The struggle is over, the boys are defeated,
Old Ireland's surrounded with sadness and gloom,
We were defeated and shamefuIIy treated,
And I, Robert Emmet, awaiting my doom.
Hung, drawn and quartered, sure that was my sentence,
But soon I will show them no coward am I.
My crime is the love of the land I was born in,
A hero I lived and a hero I'll die.
The barque lay at anchor awaiting to bring me
Over the billows to the land of the free;
But I must see my sweetheart for I know she will cheer me,
And with her I will sail far over the sea.
But I was arrested and cast into prison,
Tried as a traitor, a rebel, a spy;
But no man can call me a knave or a coward,
A hero I lived and a hero I'll die.
Hark! I the bell's tolling, I well know its meaning,
My poor heart tells me it is my death knell;
In come the clergy, the warder is leading,
I have no friends here to bid me farewell.
Goodbye, old Ireland, my parents and sweetheart,
Companions in arms to forget you must try;
I am proud of the honour, it was only my duty
A hero I lived and a hero I'll die.

Easter 1916

I HAVE met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road.
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse -
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

W B Yates