The Complete Works. William Butler Yeats

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      ‘Vex them no longer,’ Niamh said,

      And sighing bowed her gentle head,

      And sighing laid the pearly tip

      Of one long finger on my lip.

      But now the moon like a white rose shone

      In the pale west, and the sun’s rim sank,

      And clouds arrayed their rank on rank

      About his fading crimson ball:

      The floor of Emen’s hosting hall

      Was not more level than the sea,

      As full of loving phantasy,

      And with low murmurs we rode on,

      Where many a trumpet-twisted shell

      That in immortal silence sleeps

      Dreaming of her own melting hues,

      Her golds, her ambers, and her blues,

      Pierced with soft light the shallowing deeps.

      But now a wandering land breeze came

      And a far sound of feathery quires;

      It seemed to blow from the dying flame,

      They seemed to sing in the smouldering fires.

      The horse towards the music raced,

      Neighing along the lifeless waste;

      Like sooty fingers, many a tree

      Rose ever out of the warm sea;

      And they were trembling ceaselessly,

      As though they all were beating time,

      Upon the centre of the sun,

      To that low laughing woodland rhyme.

      And, now our wandering hours were done,

      We cantered to the shore, and knew

      The reason of the trembling trees:

      Round every branch the song-birds flew,

      Or clung thereon like swarming bees;

      While round the shore a million stood

      Like drops of frozen rainbow light,

      And pondered in a soft vain mood,

      Upon their shadows in the tide,

      And told the purple deeps their pride,

      And murmured snatches of delight;

      And on the shores were many boats

      With bending sterns and bending bows,

      And carven figures on their prows

      Of bitterns, and fish-eating stoats,

      And swans with their exultant throats:

      And where the wood and waters meet

      We tied the horse in a leafy clump,

      And Niamh blew three merry notes

      Out of a little silver trump;

      And then an answering whisper flew

      Over the bare and woody land,

      A whisper of impetuous feet,

      And ever nearer, nearer grew;

      And from the woods rushed out a band

      Of men and maidens, hand in hand,

      And singing, singing altogether;

      Their brows were white as fragrant milk,

      Their cloaks made out of yellow silk,

      And trimmed with many a crimson feather:

      And when they saw the cloak I wore

      Was dim with mire of a mortal shore,

      They fingered it and gazed on me

      And laughed like murmurs of the sea;

      But Niamh with a swift distress

      Bid them away and hold their peace;

      And when they heard her voice they ran

      And knelt them, every maid and man,

      And kissed, as they would never cease,

      Her pearl-pale hand and the hem of her dress.

      She bade them bring us to the hall

      Where Aengus dreams, from sun to sun,

      A Druid dream of the end of days

      When the stars are to wane and the world be done.

      They led us by long and shadowy ways

      Where drops of dew in myriads fall,

      And tangled creepers every hour

      Blossom in some new crimson flower,

      And once a sudden laughter sprang

      From all their lips, and once they sang

      Together, while the dark woods rang,

      And made in all their distant parts,

      With boom of bees in honey marts,

      A rumour of delighted hearts.

      And once a maiden by my side

      Gave me a harp, and bid me sing,

      And touch the laughing silver string;

      But when I sang of human joy

      A sorrow wrapped each merry face,

      And, Patric! by your beard, they wept,

      Until one came, a tearful boy;

      ‘A sadder creature never stept

      Than this strange human bard,’ СКАЧАТЬ