William Yeats - The Collected Works in Verse and Prose of William Butler Yeats. Volume 3 of 8. The Countess Cathleen. The Land of Heart's Desire. The Unicorn from the Stars

We come to make amends for robbery.
I stole five hundred apples from your trees,
And laid them in a hole; and my friend here
Last night stole two large mountain sheep of yours
And hung them on a beam under his thatch.

His words are true.

Since then our luck has changed.
As I came down the lane by Tubber-vanach
I fell on Shemus Rua and his son,
And they led me where two great gentlemen
Buy souls for money, and they bought my soul.
I told my friend here – my friend also trafficked.

His words are true.

Now people throng to sell,
Noisy as seagulls tearing a dead fish.
There soon will be no man or woman’s soul
Unbargained for in fivescore baronies.

His words are true.

When we had sold we talked,
And having no more comfortable life
Than this that makes us warm – our souls being bartered
For all this money —

And this money here.

And fearing much to hang for robbery,
We come to pay you for the sheep and fruit.
How do you price them?

Gather up your money.
Think you that I would touch the demons’ gold?
Begone, give twice, thrice, twenty times their money,
And buy your souls again. I will pay all.

We will not buy our souls again: a soul
But keeps the flesh out of its merriment.
We shall be merry and drunk from moon to moon.
Keep from our way. Let no one stop our way.

Follow and bring them here again – beseech them.

Steward, you know the secrets of this house.
How much have I in gold?

A hundred thousand.

How much have I in castles?

As much more.

How much have I in pastures?

As much more.

How much have I in forests?

As much more.

Keeping this house alone, sell all I have;
Go to some distant country and come again
With many herds of cows and ships of grain.

God’s blessing light upon your ladyship;
You will have saved the land.

Make no delay.

How did you thrive? Say quickly. You are pale.

Their eyes burn like the eyes of birds of prey:
I did not dare go near.

God pity them!
Bring all the old and ailing to this house,
For I will have no sorrow of my own
From this day onward.

Can you tell me, mother,
How I may mend the times, how staunch this wound
That bleeds in the earth, how overturn the famine,
How drive these demons to their darkness again?

The demons hold our hearts between their hands,
For the apple is in our blood, and though heart break
There is no medicine but Michael’s trump.
Till it has ended parting and old age
And hail and rain and famine and foolish laughter;
The dead are happy, the dust is in their ears.

Here is yet another would see your ladyship.

Who calls me?

There is a man would speak with you,
And by his face he has some pressing news,
Some moving tale.

I cannot rest or pray,
For all day long the messengers run hither
On one another’s heels, and every message
More evil than the one that had gone before.
Who is the messenger?

Aleel, the poet.

There is no hour he is not welcome to me,
Because I know of nothing but a harp-string
That can remember happiness.

And now
I grow forgetful of evil for awhile.

I have come to bid you leave this castle, and fly
Out of these woods.

What evil is there here,
That is not everywhere from this to the sea?

They who have sent me walk invisible.

Men say that the wise people of the raths
Have given you wisdom.

I lay in the dusk
Upon the grassy margin of a lake
Among the hills, where none of mortal creatures
But the swan comes – my sleep became a fire.
One walked in the fire with birds about his head.

Ay, Aengus of the birds.

He may be Aengus,
But it may be he bears an angelical name.
Lady, he bid me call you from these woods;
He bids you bring Oona, your foster-mother,
And some few serving-men and live in the hills
Among the sounds of music and the light
Of waters till the evil days are gone.

For here some terrible death is waiting you;
Some unimaginable evil, some great darkness
That fable has not dreamt of, nor sun nor moon
Scattered.

And he had birds about his head?

Yes, yes, white birds. He bids you leave this house
With some old trusty serving-man, who will feed
All that are starving and shelter all that wander
While there is food and house-room.

He bids me go
Where none of mortal creatures but the swan
Dabbles, and there you would pluck the harp when the trees
Had made a heavy shadow about our door,
And talk among the rustling of the reeds
When night hunted the foolish sun away,
With stillness and pale tapers. No – no – no.
I cannot. Although I weep, I do not weep
Because that life would be most happy, and here
I find no way, no end. Nor do I weep
Because I had longed to look upon your face,
But that a night of prayer has made me weary.