EDWARD J. O'BRIEN

SONG

FROM "FLESH: A GEOGORIAN ODE"

EBB on with me across the sunset tide And float beyond the waters of the world, The light of evening slipping from my side, Thy softened voice in waves of silence furled.

Flow on into the flaming morning wine, Drowning the land in color. Then on high Rise in thy candid innocence and shine Like to a poplar straight against the sky.

EDWARD J. O'BRIEN

IN MEMORIAM: FRANCIS LEDWIDGE (Killed in action, July 31, 1917)

SOLDIER and singer of Erin, What may I fashion for thee?

What garland of words or of flowers?

Singer of sunlight and showers, The wind on the lea;

Of clouds, and the houses of Erin, Wee cabins, white on the plain, And bright with the colours of even, Beauty of earth and of heaven falls Outspread beyond Slane!

night through let my mind be still,

Slane, where the Easter of Patrick Flamed on the night of the Gael, Guard both the honor and story Of him who has died for the glory That crowns Innisfail.

Soldier of right and of freedom, I offer thee song and hot tears.

With Brian, and Red Hugh O'Donnell, The chiefs of Tyrone and Tryconnell, Live on through the years!

NORREYS JEPHSON O'CONOR

EVENSONG

A SHEPHERD piping, herald of the Night Who comes with Silence up the coloured vale, Treading low gently, clad in greyish white, Poignantly piping, sound your reedy wail!

For Day departed moves in funeral train Tended by Twilight and, in deepest rose, The splendid Sunset melts beneath the main While sweet the Sea-wind with cool softness blows.

As when a mother gathers to her breast The child who frets for Dad's remembered smart, Now Light fades quickly in the ashen west, And Night-Peace falls across my troubled heart.

Flutes, for the night through let my mind be still, And G.o.d keep safe with Him my stubborn will!

NORREYS JEPHSON O'CONOR

THE PROPHET

ALL day long he kept the sheep:-- Far and early, from the crowd, On the hills from steep to steep, Where the silence cried aloud; And the shadow of the cloud Wrapt him in a noonday sleep.

Where he dipped the water's cool, Filling boyish hands from thence, Something breathed across the pool Stir of sweet enlightenments; And he drank, with thirsty sense, Till his heart was brimmed and full.

Still, the hovering Voice unshed, And the Vision unbeheld, And the mute sky overhead, And his longing, still withheld!

--Even when the two tears welled, Salt, upon that lonely bread.

Vaguely blessed in the leaves, Dim-companioned in the sun, Eager mornings, wistful eyes, Very hunger drew him on; And To-morrow ever shone With the glow the sunset weaves.

Even so, to that young heart, Words and hands and Men were dear; And the stir of lane and mart After daylong vigil here.

Sunset called, and he drew near, Still to find his path apart.

When the Bell, with gentle tongue, Called the herd-bells home again, Through the purple shades he swung, Down the mountain, through the glen; Towards the sound of fellow-men,-- Even from the light that clung.

Dimly too, as cloud on cloud, Came that silent flock of his: Thronging whiteness, in a crowd, After homing twos and threes; With the longing memories Of all white things dreamed and vowed.

Through the fragrances, alone, By the sudden-silent brook, From the open world unknown, To the close of speech and book; There to find the foreign look In the faces of his own.

Sharing was beyond his skill; Shyly yet, he made essay: Sought to dip, and share, and fill Heart's-desire, from day to day.

But their eyes, some foreign way, Looked at him; and he was still.

Last, he reached his arms to sleep, Where the Vision waited, dim, Still beyond some deep-on-deep.

And the darkness folded him, Eager heart and weary limb.-- All day long, he kept the sheep.

JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY

HARVEST-MOON: 1914

OVER the twilight field, The overflowing field,-- Over the glimmering field, And bleeding furrows with their sodden yield Of sheaves that still did writhe, After the scythe; The teeming field and darkly overstrewn With all the garnered fulness of that noon-- Two looked upon each other.

One was a Woman men called their mother; And one, the Harvest-Moon.

And one, the Harvest-Moon, Who stood, who gazed On those unquiet gleanings where they bled; Till the lone Woman said: "But we were crazed...

We should laugh now together, I and you, We two.

You, for your dreaming it was worth A star's while to look on and light the Earth; And I, forever telling to my mind, Glory it was, and gladness, to give birth To humankind!

Yes, I, that ever thought it not amiss To give the breath to men, For men to slay again: Lording it over anguish but to give My life that men might live For this.

You will be laughing now, remembering I called you once Dead World, and barren thing,

Yes, so we named you then, You, far more wise Than to give life to men."

Over the field, that there Gave back the skies A shattered upward stare From blank white eyes,-- Striving awhile, through many a bleeding dune Of throbbing clay, but dumb and quiet soon, She looked; and went her way-- The Harvest-Moon.

JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEAODY

HORSEMAN SPRINGING FROM THE DARK: A DREAM

"HORSEMAN, springing from the dark, Horseman, flying wild and free, Tell me what shall be thy road Whither speedest far from me?"

"From the dark into the light, From the small unto the great, From the valleys dark I ride O'er the hills to conquer fate!"

"Take me with thee, horseman mine!

Let me madly rode with thee!"

As he turned I met his eyes, My own soul looked back at me!