Even so, some day, Father Saran May say a prayer for me; Myself meanwhile, the Sister tells, Should pray unceasingly. They kneel who pray: how may I kneel Who face to ceiling lie, Shut out by all that man has made From God who made the sky? They lift who pray -- the low earth-born -- A humble heart to God: But O, my heart of clay is proud -- True sister to the sod. I look into the face of God, They say bends over me; I search the dark, dark face of God -- O what is it I see? I see -- who lie fast bound, who may Not kneel, who can but seek -- I see mine own face over me, With tears upon its cheek. II If my dark grandam had but known, Or yet my wild grandsir, Or the lord that lured the maid away That was my sad mother, O had they known, O had they dreamed What gift it was they gave, Would they have stayed their wild, wild love, Nor made my years their slave? Must they have stopped their hungry lips From love at thought of me? O life, O life, how may we learn Thy strangest mystery? Nay, they knew not, as we scarce know; Their souls, O let them rest; My life is pupil unto pain -- With him I make my quest. III My little soul I never saw, Nor can I count its days; I do not know its wondrous law And yet I know its ways. O it is young as morning-hours, And old as is the night; O it has growth of budding flowers, Yet tastes my body's blight. And it is silent and apart, And far and fair and still, Yet ever beats within my heart, And cries within my will. And it is light and bright and strange, And sees life far away, Yet far with near can interchange And dwell within the day. My soul has died a thousand deaths, And yet it does not die; My soul has broke a thousand faiths, And yet it cannot lie; My soul -- there's naught can make it less; My soul -- there's naught can mar; Yet here it weeps with loneliness Within its lonely star. My soul -- not any dark can bind, Nor hinder any hand, Yet here it weeps -- long blind, long blind -- And cannot understand. Irish Peasant Song. [Louise Imogen Guiney] I try to knead and spin, but my life is low the while. Oh, I long to be alone, and walk abroad a mile; Yet if I walk alone, and think of naught at all, Why from me that's young should the wild tears fall? The shower-sodden earth, the earth-colored streams, They breathe on me awake, and moan to me in dreams, And yonder ivy fondling the broke castle-wall, It pulls upon my heart till the wild tears fall. The cabin-door looks down a furze-lighted hill, And far as Leighlin Cross the fields are green and still; But once I hear the blackbird in Leighlin hedges call, The foolishness is on me, and the wild tears fall! The Prince. [Josephine Dodge Daskam] My heart it was a cup of gold That at his lip did long to lie, But he hath drunk the red wine down, And tossed the goblet by.