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

Why do you do this, lady – did you see
Your coffin in a dream?

Ah, no, not that,
A sad resolve wakes in me. I have heard
A sound of wailing in unnumbered hovels,
And I must go down, down, I know not where.
Pray for the poor folk who are crazed with famine;
Pray, you good neighbours.

Mary, queen of angels,
And all you clouds on clouds of saints, farewell!

The woman may keep robbing us no more,
For there are only mice now in her coffers.

Last night, closed in the image of an owl,
I hurried to the cliffs of Donegal,
And saw, creeping on the uneasy surge,
Those ships that bring the woman grain and meal;
They are five days from us.

I hurried East,
A gray owl flitting, flitting in the dew,
And saw nine hundred oxen toil through Meath
Driven on by goads of iron; they, too, brother,
Are full five days from us.

Five days for traffic.

Here throng they; since the drouth they go in throngs,
Like autumn leaves blown by the dreary winds.
Come, deal – come, deal.

Who will come deal with us?

They are out of spirit, sir, with lack of food,
Save four or five. Here, sir, is one of these;
The others will gain courage in good time.

I come to deal if you give honest price.

John Maher, a man of substance, with dull mind,
And quiet senses and unventurous heart.
The angels think him safe. Two hundred crowns,
All for a soul, a little breath of wind.

I ask three hundred crowns. You have read there,
That no mere lapse of days can make me yours.

There is something more writ here – often at night
He is wakeful from a dread of growing poor.
There is this crack in you – two hundred crowns.

Come, deal – one would half think you had no souls.
If only for the credit of your parishes,
Come, deal, deal, deal, or will you always starve?
Maire, the wife of Shemus, would not deal,
She starved – she lies in there with red wallflowers,
And candles stuck in bottles round her bed.

What price, now, will you give for mine?

Ay, ay,
Soft, handsome, and still young – not much, I think.

She has love letters in a little jar
On the high shelf between the pepper-pot
And wood-cased hour-glass.

O, the scandalous parchment!

She hides them from her husband, who buys horses,
And is not much at home. You are almost safe.
I give you fifty crowns.[ She turns to go.
A hundred, then.

Come – deal, deal, deal; it is for charity
We buy such souls at all; a thousand sins
Made them our master’s long before we came.
Come, deal – come, deal. You seem resolved to starve
Until your bones show through your skin. Come, deal,
Or live on nettles, grass, and dandelion.
Or do you dream the famine will go by?
The famine is hale and hearty; it is mine
And my great master’s; it shall no wise cease
Until our purpose end: the yellow vapour
That brought it bears it over your dried fields
And fills with violent phantoms of the lost,
And grows more deadly as day copies day.
See how it dims the daylight. Is that peace
Known to the birds of prey so dread a thing?
They, and the souls obedient to our master,
And those who live with that great other spirit
Have gained an end, a peace, while you but toss
And swing upon a moving balance beam.

Here, take my soul, for I am tired of it;
I do not ask a price.

A man of songs:
Alone in the hushed passion of romance,
His mind ran all on sidheoges and on tales
Of Fenian labours and the Red Branch kings,
And he cared nothing for the life of man:
But now all changes.

Ay, because her face,
The face of Countess Cathleen, dwells with me:
The sadness of the world upon her brow:
The crying of these strings grew burdensome,
Therefore I tore them; see; now take my soul.

We cannot take your soul, for it is hers.

Ah, take it; take it. It nowise can help her,
And, therefore, do I tire of it.

No; no.
We may not touch it.

Is your power so small,
Must I then bear it with me all my days?
May scorn close deep about you!

Lead him hence;
He troubles me.

His gaze has filled me, brother,
With shaking and a dreadful fear.

Lean forward
And kiss the circlet where my master’s lips
Were pressed upon it when he sent us hither:
You will have peace once more.

He is called Aleel,
And has been crazy now these many days;
But has no harm in him: his fits soon pass,
And one can go and lead him like a child.

Come, deal, deal, deal, deal, deal; you are all dumb?