The chaplain clasped his mailèd knee. "Nor need I more thy whine and thee! No time is left my sins to tell; But look ye bind me, bind me well!" ΙΟ They bound him strong with leathern thong, Day was dying; the poplars fled, Out of the sky the fierce hue fell, And made the streams as the streams of hell. Flowed aflame as fleet he rode, Onward flowed to her abode, Ceased at her feet, mirrored her face. 20 (Viewless Death apace, apace, Rode behind him in that race.) "Face, mine own, mine alone, Trembling lips my lips have known, Birdlike stir of the dove-soft eyne Under the kisses that make them mine! Only to thee, to thee, I speed!" The Cross flashed by at the highway's turn; In a beam of the moon the Face shone stern. 30 Far behind had the fight's din died; "What is the throb that thrills so sweet? But his own strong pulse the fainter fell, Fast, and fast, and the thick black wood Fast, and fast, by the road he knew; She heard no sound before her gate, All was as her hand had left it late: The needle slept on the broidered vine, 50 Where the hammer and spikes of the passion-flower Her fashioning did wait. On the couch lay something fair, 60 But the lady was not there. On the wings of shrift and prayer, Her soul had risen twelve hours ago. The burdened steed at the barred gate stood, Now God's great grace assoil the soul That went out in the wood! 70 Once, while he nodded on a chair, Another poor man sent for him, And he began to grieve. 8 "I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace, For people die and die"; And after cried he, "God forgive! 12 *Used by arrangement with the author's agents, A. P. Watt and Son, London, and with his American publishers, The Mac millan Company. He knelt, and leaning on the chair And the moth-hour went from the fields, And stars began to peep. They slowly into millions grew, And leaves shook in the wind; And God covered the world with shade, Upon the time of sparrow chirp When the moths came once more, Stood upright on the floor. "Mavrone, mavrone! the man has died, While I slept on the chair"; He roused his horse out of his sleep, And rode with little care. He rode now as he never rode, By rocky lane and fen; The sick man's wife opened the door; "Father! you come again!" "And is the poor man dead?" he cried. "He died an hour ago." The old priest Peter Gilligan In grief swayed to and fro. 16 20 24 28 "When you were gone, he turned and died As merry as a bird." 32 36 The old priest Peter Gilligan He knelt him at the word. "He who hath made the night of stars For souls who tire and bleed, Sent one of His great angels down To help me in my need. "He who is wrapped in purple robes, With planets in His care, Had pity on the least of things Asleep upon a chair." 40 44 48 William Butler Yeats. |