I do not know of anything under the sky That is friendly or favourable to the Gael But only the sea that our need brings us to, Or the wind that blows to the harbour The ship that is bearing us away from Ireland; And there is reason that these are reconciled with us, For we increase the sea with our tears And the wandering wind with our sighs. _The Heart of the Wood_ My hope and my love, we will go for a while into the wood, scattering the dew, where we will see the trout, we will see the blackbird on its nest; the deer and the buck calling, the little bird that is sweetest singing on the branches; the cuckoo on the top of the fresh green; and death will never come near us for ever in the sweet wood. _An Craoibhin Complains Because He Is a Poet_ It's my grief that I am not a little white duck, And I'd swim over the sea to France or to Spain; I would not stay in Ireland for one week only, To be without eating, without drinking, without a full jug. Without a full jug, without eating, without drinking, Without a feast to get, without wine, without meat, Without high dances, without a big name, without music; There is hunger on me, and I astray this long time. It's my grief that I am not an old crow, I would sit for awhile up on the old branch, I could satisfy my hunger, and I not as I am With a grain of oats or a white potato It's my grief that I am not a red fox, Leaping strong and swift on the mountains, Eating cocks and hens without pity, Taking ducks and geese as a conquerer. It's my grief that I am not a bright salmon, Going through the strong full water, Catching the mayflies by my craft, Swimming at my choice, and swimming with the stream It's my grief that I am of the race of the poets; It would be better for me to be a high rock, Or a stone or a tree or an herb or a flower Or anything at all but the thing that I am! _He Cries Out Against Love_ There are three fine devils eating my heart-- They left me, my grief! without a thing; Sickness wrought, and Love wrought, And an empty pocket, my ruin and my woe. Poverty left me without a shirt, Barefooted, barelegged, without any covering; Sickness left me with my head weak And my body miserable, an ugly thing. Love left me like a coal upon the floor, Like a half-burned sod that is never put out. Worse than the cough, worse than the fever itself, Worse than any curse at all under the sun, Worse than the great poverty Is the devil that is called "Love" by the people. And if I were in my young youth again I would not take, or give, or ask for a kiss! _He Meditates on the Life of a Rich Man_ A golden cradle under you, and you young; A right mother and a strong kiss. A lively horse, and you a boy; A school and learning and close companions. A beautiful wife, and you a man; A wide house and everything that is good.