“PoliticsHow can I, that girl standing there,My attention fixOn Roman or on RussianOr on Spanish politics?Yet here's a travelled man that knowsWhat he talks about,And there's a politicianThat has read and thought,And maybe what they say is trueOf war and war's alarms,But O that I were young againAnd held her in my arms!”

“I said: 'A line will take us hours maybe;Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought,Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.”

“Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet; She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet. She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree; But I, being young and foolish, with her did not agree. In a field by the river my love and I did stand, And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand. She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs; But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.”

“CUCHULAIN’S FIGHT WITH THE SEAA MAN came slowly from the setting sun,To Emer, raddling raiment in her dun,And said, ‘I am that swineherd whom you bidGo watch the road between the wood and tide,But now I have no need to watch it more.’Then Emer cast the web upon the floor,And raising arms all raddled with the dye,Parted her lips with a loud sudden cry.That swineherd stared upon her face and said,‘No man alive, no man among the dead,Has won the gold his cars of battle bring.’‘But if your master comes home triumphingWhy must you blench and shake from foot to crown?’Thereon he shook the more and cast him downUpon the web-heaped floor, and cried his word:‘With him is one sweet-throated like a bird.’‘You dare me to my face,’ and thereuponShe smote with raddled fist, and where her sonHerded the cattle came with stumbling feet,And cried with angry voice, ’It is not meetTo idle life away, a common herd.’‘I have long waited, mother, for that word:But wherefore now?’‘There is a man to die;You have the heaviest arm under the sky.’‘Whether under its daylight or its starsMy father stands amid his battle-cars.’‘But you have grown to be the taller man.’‘Yet somewhere under starlight or the sunMy father stands.’‘Aged, worn out with warsOn foot, on horseback or in battle-cars.’‘I only ask what way my journey lies,For He who made you bitter made you wise.’‘The Red Branch camp in a great companyBetween wood’s rim and the horses of the sea.Go there, and light a camp-fire at wood’s rim;But tell your name and lineage to himWhose blade compels, and wait till they have foundSome feasting man that the same oath has bound.’Among those feasting men Cuchulain dwelt,And his young sweetheart close beside him knelt,Stared on the mournful wonder of his eyes,Even as Spring upon the ancient skies,And pondered on the glory of his days;And all around the harp-string told his praise,And Conchubar, the Red Branch king of kings,With his own fingers touched the brazen strings.At last Cuchulain spake, ‘Some man has madeHis evening fire amid the leafy shade.I have often heard him singing to and fro,I have often heard the sweet sound of his bow.Seek out what man he is.’One went and came.‘He bade me let all know he gives his nameAt the sword-point, and waits till we have foundSome feasting man that the same oath has bound.’Cuchulain cried, ‘I am the only manOf all this host so bound from childhood on.After short fighting in the leafy shade,He spake to the young man, ’Is there no maidWho loves you, no white arms to wrap you round,Or do you long for the dim sleepy ground,That you have come and dared me to my face?’‘The dooms of men are in God’s hidden place,’‘Your head a while seemed like a woman’s headThat I loved once.’Again the fighting sped,But now the war-rage in Cuchulain woke,And through that new blade’s guard the old blade broke,And pierced him.‘Speak before your breath is done.’‘Cuchulain I, mighty Cuchulain’s son.’‘I put you from your pain. I can no more.’While day its burden on to evening bore,With head bowed on his knees Cuchulain stayed;Then Conchubar sent that sweet-throated maid,And she, to win him, his grey hair caressed;In vain her arms, in vain her soft white breast.Then Conchubar, the subtlest of all men,Ranking his Druids round him ten by ten,Spake thus: ‘Cuchulain will dwell there and broodFor three days more in dreadful quietude,And then arise, and raving slay us all.Chaunt in his ear delusions magical,That he may fight the horses of the sea.’The Druids took them to their mystery,And chaunted for three days.Cuchulain stirred,Stared on the horses of the sea, and heardThe cars of battle and his own name cried;And fought with the invulnerable tide.”

“Think where man's glory most begins and endsAnd say my glory was I had such friends.”

“One that is ever kind said yesterday:'Your well-beloved's hair has threads of grey,And little shadows come about her eyes;Time can but make it easier to be wiseThough now it seems impossible, and soAll that you need is patience.'Heart cries, 'No,I have not a crumb of comfort, not a grain.Time can but make her beauty over again:Because of that great nobleness of hersThe fire that stirs about her, when she stirs,Burns but more clearly. O she had not these waysWhen all the wild Summer was in her gaze.' Heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head,You'd know the folly of being comforted!”

“The things a man has heard and seen are threads of life, and if he pull them carefully from the confused distaff of memory, any who will can weave them into whatever garments of belief please them best. I too have woven my garment like another, but I shall try to keep warm in it, and shall be well content if it do not unbecome me.”