One had a lovely face,
And two or three had charm,
But charm and face were in vain.
Because the mountain grass
Cannot keep the form
Where the mountain hare has lain.

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When such as I cast out remorse
So great a sweetness flows into the breast
We must laugh and we must sing,
We are blest by everything,
Everything we look upon is blest.

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We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind
And lost the old nonchalance of the hand;
Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush,
We are but critics, or but half create.

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How many loved your moments of glad grace
And loved your beauty with love false or true
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

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I gave what other women gave
That stepped out of their clothes
But when this soul, its body off
Naked to naked goes,
He it has found shall find therein
What none other knows.

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John Synge, I and Augusta Gregory, thought
All that we did, all that we said or sang
Must come from contact with the soil, from that
Contact everything Antaeus-like grew strong.

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Now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

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For such,
Being made beautiful overmuch,
Consider beauty a sufflcient end,
Lose natural kindness and maybe
The heart-revealing intimacy
That chooses right, and never find a friend.

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Never to have lived is best, ancient writers say.
Never to have drawn the breath of life,
never to have looked into the eye of day;
The second best's a gay goodnight and quickly turn away.

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All hatred driven hence,
The soul recovers radical innocence
And learns at last that it is self-delighting,
Self-appeasing, self-affrighting,
And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will.

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