The Poetry Corner

Brigid

By James Stephens

(AFTER THE IRISH) Do not marry, Breed, asthore! That old man whose head is hoar As the winter, but instead Mate with some young curly-head; He will give to you a child, He will never leave your side, And at morning when you wake Kiss for kiss will give and take. I wish that I had died, I do, Before I gave my love to you; Love so lasting that it will While I live be with you still: And for it what do I get? Pain and trouble and regret, The terrors of the aspen-tree Which the wind shakes fearfully. If this country could be seen As it ought - then you had been Living in a castle grand With the ladies of the land: The friend and foe, the gael and gall, Would be cheering, one and all, For yourself, and, this is true, I would be along with you. You promised, 'twas a lie, I see, When you said you'd come to me At the sheep-cote; I was there, And I whistled on the air, And I gave our settled call - But you were not there at all! There was nothing anywhere But lambs and birds and sunny air When it is dark you pass me by, And when the sun is in the sky You pass me also - night or day You look away, you walk away! But if you would come to me, And say the word of courtesy, I would close the door, and then I'd never let you out again. But do not marry, Breed, asthore! That old man; his heart is hoar As his head is: you can see Winter gripping at his knee: His eyes and ears are blear and dim, How can you expect of him To see or hear or pleasure you Half as well as I would do?