Padraic Colum

THERE is no glory of the sunset here!

Heavy the clouds upon the darkening road,

And heavy too the wind upon the trees!

The trees sway, making moan

Continuous, like breaking seas.

O impotent, bare things,

You give at last the very cry of Earth!

I walk this darkening road in solemn mood:

Within deep hell came Dante to a wood—

Like him I marvel at the crying trees!

Christ, by thine own darkened hour,

Live within me, heart and brain—

Let my hands not slip the rein!

Ah, how long ago it is

Since a comrade went with me!

Now a moment let me see

Thyself, lonely in the dark,

Perfect, without wound or mark!

III

To-morrow I will bend the bow:

My soul shall have her mark again,

My bosom feel the archer’s strain.

No longer pacing to and fro

With idle hands and listless brain:

As goes the arrow forth I go.

My soul shall have her mark again,

My bosom feel the archer’s strain.

To-morrow I will bend the bow.

The drivers in the sunset race

Their coal-carts over cobble-stones—

Not draymen but triumphators:

Their bags are left with Smith and Jones,

They let their horses take their stride,

Which toss their forelocks in their pride.

Nor blue nor green these factions wear

Which make career o’er Dublin stones;

But Pluto his own livery

Is what each whip-carrier owns.

The Caesar of the cab-rank, I

Salute the triumph speeding by.