(no subject)

[kuangning]

rosefox was the latest, and thanks to her, I'm giving in. When you see this, post a poem in your LJ.

This one's an old favourite -- 'twas either this or Monro's "Overheard On A Saltmarsh".

The Stolen Child
W.B. Yeats

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of the reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping
Than you can understand.



Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping
Than you can understand.



Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping
Than you can understand.



Away with us he's going,
The solemn eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
For he comes, the human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
From a world more full of weeping
Than he can understand.



Heirloom

It is no coincidence that
The most beautiful sounds are
Laced with sadness:
The pure treble of a child's voice,
The swan's song,
Hauntingly clear,
Of a human heart
Dying of isolation...
They strike a chord
Deep within the heart,
Set up an echo that is passed on
From generation to generation...
An heirloom of fragile brilliance,
It is meant to be darkened
By the shadow of the pain
It was created to soothe,
Tainted by the almost-wrong resonance
Of the minor-key chord
Which grants it endurance...
For without the sorrow,
We would not remember.

The gold of childhood's dreams
Is purified by the fires
Of our hurts;
The steel of a young will
Is forged in pain.
The bird's song is made sweeter
By the clear loneliness
Imposed upon the string of notes,
For joy alone is forgotten soon,
And made memorable
Only by contrast to pain.

Comments

[heronblue.livejournal.com]

You've heard Loreena McKennit's song, where she put the words to "Stolen Child" to music? It's beautiful.

That's one of my favorite poems, as well.

[kuangning]

Yeah, I've heard it, and love it. :)