In the dim, gloomy doorway I searched till I found A dry withered leaf Lying down on the ground. With thin, pointed claws And a dry dusty skin,-- Sure a hall is no place For a leaf to be in! Oh where is your tree, And your summer and all, Poor dusty leaf Whistled into a hall? MERRION SQUARE Grey clouds on the tinted sky, A drifting moon, a quiet breeze Drooping mournfully to cry In the branches of the trees. The crying wind, the sighing trees, The ruffled stars, the darkness falling Down the sky, and on the breeze A belated linnet calling. THE BARE TREES Unfortunates, on the bare tree! I mourn for ye That have no place to house, But on those winter-white cold boughs To sit, (How far apart ye sit) And brood In this wide, wintry solitude That has no song at all to hearten it. Fly away, little birds! Fly away to Spain, Stay there all the winter Then come back again; Come back in the summer When the leaves are thick; Little weeny cold birds Fly away quick. DUNPHY'S CORNER Pacing slowly down the road Black horses go, with load on load Of Dublin people dead, and they Will be covered up in clay. Ere their friends go home, each man Will shake his head, and drain a can To Dublin people we will meet Not again in Grafton Street. THE DODDER BANK When no flower is nigh, you might Spy a weed with deep delight; So, when far from saints and bliss, God might give a sin a kiss. WHITE FIELDS In the winter children go Walking in the fields of snow Where there is no grass at all, And the top of every wall, Every fence, and every tree Is as white as white can be. Pointing out the way they came, (Every one of them the same) All across the fields there be Prints in silver filigree; And their mothers find them so By the footprints in the snow. THE PAPS OF DANA The mountains stand and stare around, They are far too proud to speak; Altho' they're rooted in the ground, Up they go, peak after peak, Beyond the tallest tree, and still Soaring over house and hill Until you'd think they'd never stop Going up, top over top, Into the clouds-- Still I mark That a sparrow or a lark Flying just as high, can sing As if he'd not done anything. I think the mountains ought to be Taught a little modesty. DONNELLY'S ORCHARD He who locks a gate doth close Pity's heart against his woes; But who opens one shall find God is standing just behind. DONNYBROOK I saw the moon so broad and bright Sailing high on a frosty night: And the air swung far and far between The silver disc and the orb of green: While here and there a wisp of white Cloud-film swam on the misty light: And crusted thickly on the sky, High and higher and yet more high,