There is death in the breath when our lips draw nigher, And we lay waste the plain for a flower to grow; And we build up the tower of an hour's desire With dust from the pit of its overthrow. 

 

 

 RECALL 

 What call may draw thee back again, Lost dove, what art, what charm may please? The tender touch, the kiss, are vain, For thou wert lured away by these. 

 Oh, must we use the iron hand, And mask with hate the holy breath, With alien voice give love's command, As they through love the call of death? 

 

 

 THE VOICE OF THE WATERS 

 Where the Greyhound River windeth through a loneliness so deep, Scarce a wild fowl shakes the quiet that the purple boglands keep, Only God exults in silence over fields no man may reap. 

 Where the silver wave with sweetness fed the tiny lives of grass I was bent above, my image mirrored in the fleeting glass, And a voice from out the water through my being seemed to pass. 

 "Still above the waters brooding, spirit, in thy timeless quest; Was the glory of thine image trembling over east and west Not divine enough when mirrored in the morning water's breast?" 

 With the sighing voice that murmured I was borne to ages dim Ere the void was lit with beauty breathed upon by seraphim, We were cradled there together folded in the peace in Him. 

 One to be the master spirit, one to be the slave awoke, One to shape itself obedient to the fiery words we spoke, Flame and flood and stars and mountains from the primal waters broke. 

 I was huddled in the heather when the vision failed its light, Still and blue and vast above me towered aloft the solemn height, Where the stars like dewdrops glistened on the mountain slope of night. 

 

 

   IN CONNEMARA 

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