James Stephens

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The Fifteen Acres

    I cling and swing

    On a branch, or sing

Through the cool, clear hush of Morning, O:

    Or fling my wing

    On the air, and bring

To sleepier birds a warning, O:

    That the night's in flight,

    And the sun's in sight,

And the dew is the grass adorning, O:

    And the green leaves swing

    As I sing, sing, sing,

Up by the river,

    Down the dell,

To the little wee nest,

    Where the big tree fell,

So early in the morning, O.

    I flit and twit

    In the sun for a bit

When his light so bright is shining, O:

    Or sit and fit

    My plumes, or knit

Straw plaits for the nest's nice lining, O:

    And she with glee

    Shows unto me

Underneath her wings reclining, O:

    And I sing that Peg

    Has an egg, egg, egg,

    Up by the oat-field,

    Round by the mill,

Past the meadow,

    Down the hill,

So early in the morning, O.

    I stoop and swoop

    On the air, or loop

Through the trees, and then go soaring, O:

    To group with a troop

    On the gusty poop

While the wind behind is roaring, O:

    I skim and swim

    By a cloud's red rim

And up to the azure flooring, O:

    And my wide wings drip

    As I slip, slip, slip,

Down through the rain-drops,

    Back where Peg

Broods in the nest

    On the little white egg,

So early in the morning, O.

Check

The night was creeping on the ground;

She crept and did not make a sound

Until she reached the tree, and then

She covered it, and sole again

Along the grass beside the wall.

I heard the rustle of her shawl

As she threw blackness everywhere

Upon the sky and ground and air,

And in the room where I was hid:

But no matter what she did

To everything that was without,

She could not put my candle out.

So I stared at the night, and she

Stared back solemnly at me.

Westland Row

Every Sunday there's a throng

Of pretty girls, who trot along

In a pious, breathless state

(They are nearly always late)

To the Chapel, where they pray

For the sins of Saturday.

They have frocks of white and blue,

Yellow sashes they have too,

And red ribbons show each head

Tenderly is ringleted;

And the bell rings loud, and the

Railway whistles urgently.

After Chapel they will go,

Walking delicately slow,

Telling still how Father John

Is so good to look upon

And such other grave affairs

As they thought of during prayers.

The Turn of the Road

I was playing with my hoop along the road

Just where the bushes are, when, suddenly,

There came a shout, -- I ran away and stowed

Myself beneath a bush, and watched to see

What made the noise, and then, around the bend,

I saw a woman running. She was old

And wrinkle-faced, and had big teeth. -- The end

Of her red shawl caught on a bush and rolled

Right off her, and her hair fell down. Her face

Was awful white, and both her eyes looked sick,

And she was talking queer. 'O God of Grace!'

Said she, 'where is the child?' and flew back quick

The way she came, and screamed, and shook her hands;

. . . Maybe she was a witch from foreign lands.

A Visit from Abroad

A speck went blowing up against the sky

As little as a leaf: then it drew near

And broadened. -- ' It's a bird,' said I,

And fetched my bow and arrows. It was queer!

It grew up from a speck into a blot,

And squattered past a cloud; then it flew down

All crumply, and waggled such a lot

I thought the thing would fall. -- It was a brown

Old carpet, where the man was sitting snug,

Who, when he reached the ground, began to sew

A big hole in the middle of the rug,

And kept on peeping everywhere to know

Who might be coming -- then he gave a twist

And flew away . . . . I fired at him but missed.

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