To the Rose upon the Rood of Time

Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days!Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways:Cuchulain battling with the bitter tide;The Druid, gray, wood-nurtured, quiet-eyed,Who cast round Fergus dreams, and ruin untold;And thine own sadness, whereof stars, grown oldIn dancing silver sandalled on the sea,Sing in their high and lonely melody.Come near, that no more blinded by man's fate,I find under the boughs of love and hate,In all poor foolish things that live a day,Eternal beauty wandering on her way.

Come near, come near, come near--Ah, leave me stillA little space for the rose-breath to fill!Lest I no more hear common things that crave;The weak worm hiding down in its small cave,The field mouse running by me in the grass,And heavy mortal hopes that toil and pass;But seek alone to hear the strange things saidBy God to the bright hearts of those long dead,And learn to chaunt a tongue men do not know.Come near; I would, before my time to go,Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways:Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days.

The whole day have I followed in the rocks,And you have changed and flowed from shape to shape.First as a raven on whose ancient wingsScarcely a feather lingered, then you seemedA weasel moving on from stone to stone,And now at last you wear a human shape,A thin gray man half lost in gathering night.

This would I say, most wise of living souls:Young subtle Concobar sat close by meWhen I gave judgment, and his words were wise,And what to me was burden without end,To him seemed easy, so I laid the crownUpon his head to cast away my care.

I feast amid my people on the hill,And pace the woods, and drive my chariot wheelsIn the white border of the murmuring sea;And still I feel the crown upon my head.

Look on my thin gray hair and hollow cheeksAnd on these hands that may not lift the swordThis body trembling like a wind-blown reed.No woman loves me, no man seeks my help,Because I be not of the things I dream.

I see my life go dripping like a streamFrom change to change; I have been many things,A green drop in the surge, a gleam of lightUpon a sword, a fir-tree on a hill,An old slave grinding at a heavy quern,A king sitting upon a chair of gold,And all these things were wonderful and great;But now I have grown nothing, being all,And the whole world weighs down upon my heart:Ah! Druid, Druid, how great webs of sorrowLay hidden in the small slate-coloured bag!