And from the dead, white eyes of them The wind springs up anew, It blows upon the trembling heart, And bull and deer renew Their flitting life in the dim past When that dead Hunter drew. I sit beside him in the night, And, fingering his red stone, I chase through endless forests dark Seeking that thing unknown, That which is not red deer or bull, But which by them was shown: By those stiff shapes in which he drew His soul's exalted cry, When flying down the forest dark He slew and knew not why, When he was filled with song, and strength Flowed to him from the sky. The wind blows from red deer and bull, The clouds wild trumpets blare, Trees rise in wild dreams from the earth, Flowers with dream faces stare, 'O Hunter, your own shadow stands Within your forest lair!' * * * * * JAMES STEPHENS THE FIFTEEN ACRES I cling and swing On a branch, or sing Through the cool, clear hush of Morning, O: Or fling my wing On the air, and bring To sleepier birds a warning, O: That the night's in flight, And the sun's in sight, And the dew is the grass adorning, O: And the green leaves swing As I sing, sing, sing, Up by the river, Down the dell, To the little wee nest, Where the big tree fell, So early in the morning, O. I flit and twit In the sun for a bit When his light so bright is shining, O: Or sit and fit My plumes, or knit Straw plaits for the nest's nice lining, O: And she with glee Shows unto me Underneath her wings reclining, O: And I sing that Peg Has an egg, egg, egg, Up by the oat-field, Round the mill, Past the meadow, Down the hill, So early in the morning, O. I stoop and swoop On the air, or loop Through the trees, and then go soaring, O: To group with a troop On the gusty poop While the wind behind is roaring, O: I skim and swim By a cloud's red rim And up to the azure flooring, O: And my wide wings drip As I slip, slip, slip Down through the rain-drops, Back where Peg Broods in the nest On the little white egg, So early in the morning, O. CHECK The night was creeping on the ground; She crept and did not make a sound Until she reached the tree, and then She covered it, and stole again Along the grass beside the wall. I heard the rustle of her shawl As she threw blackness everywhere Upon the sky and ground and air, And in the room where I was hid: But no matter what she did To everything that was without, She could not put my candle out. So I stared at the night, and she Stared back solemnly at me. WESTLAND ROW Every Sunday there's a throng Of pretty girls, who trot along In a pious, breathless state (They are nearly always late) To the Chapel, where they pray For the sins of Saturday.