I knew the stars, the flowers, and the birds, The grey and wintry sides of many glens, And did but half remember human words, In converse with the mountains, moors, and fens. IN MAY In a nook That opened south, You and I Lay mouth to mouth. A snowy gull And sooty daw Came and looked With many a caw; “Such,” I said, “Are I and you, When you’ve kissed me Black and blue!” ON A BIRTHDAY Friend of Ronsard, Nashe, and Beaumont, Lark of Ulster, Meath, and Thomond, Heard from Smyrna and Sahara To the surf of Connemara, Lark of April, June, and May, Sing loudly this my Lady-day. WINTER _With little money in a great city_ There’s snow in every street Where I go up and down, And there’s no woman, man, or dog That knows me in the town. I know each shop, and all These Jews, and Russian Poles, For I go walking night and noon To spare my sack of coals. THE CURSE. _To a sister of an enemy of the author’s who disapproved of “The Playboy.”_ Lord, confound this surly sister, Blight her brow with blotch and blister, Cramp her larynx, lung, and liver, In her guts a galling give her. Let her live to earn her dinners In Mountjoy with seedy sinners: Lord, this judgment quickly bring, And I’m your servant, J. M. Synge. TRANSLATIONS FROM PETRARCH SONNETS FROM “LAURA IN DEATH” LAURA BEING DEAD, PETRARCH FINDS TROUBLE IN ALL THE THINGS OF THE EARTH Life is flying from me, not stopping an hour, and Death is making great strides following my track. The days about me and the days passed over me, are bringing me desolation, and the days to come will be the same surely. All things that I am bearing in mind, and all things I am in dread of, are keeping me in troubles, in this way one time, in that way another time, so that if I wasn’t taking pity on my own self it’s long ago I’d have given up my life. If my dark heart has any sweet thing it is turned away from me, and then farther off I see the great winds where I must be sailing. I see my good luck far away in the harbour, but my steersman is tired out, and the masts and the ropes on them are broken, and the beautiful lights where I would be always looking are quenched. HE ASKS HIS HEART TO RAISE ITSELF UP TO GOD What is it you’re thinking, lonesome heart? For what is it you’re turning back ever and always to times that are gone away from you? For what is it you’re throwing sticks on the fire where it is your own self that is burning? The little looks and sweet words you’ve taken one by one and written down among your songs, are gone up into the Heavens, and it’s late, you know well, to go seeking them on the face of the earth.