When Irish Eyes are Smiling

I owe y'all a lengthy post about Dublin. Once I collect photos from my friends I will write something up, I promise. But I will say this: I wasn't blown away by Dublin. It wasn't as cosmopolitan as I expected. Don't get me wrong, it was lovely, but it wasn't a particularly memorable city.

Speaking of Dublin, Nels helpfully reminded us that it is poetry month, and I thought I would post an Irish poem here. When I was in the seventh grade, we had a "cultural day" in our English class, where people read stories or gave presentations about their heritage. I read some Irish poems, and one in particular still sticks in my mind today: "The Stolen Child" by W.B. Yeats. When I went to the Dublin Writers' Museum, the memory of this poem came back to me. Here it is:

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats.
There we've hid our fairy vats
Full of berries,
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O, human child!
To the woods and waters wild
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than
you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by farthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands, and mingling glances,
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap,
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away! O, human child!
To the woods and waters wild,
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than
you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes,
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout,
And whispering in their ears;
We give them evil dreams,
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Of dew on the young streams.
Come! O, human child!
To the woods and waters wild,
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping then
you can understand.

Away with us, he's going,
The solemn-eyed;
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hill-side.
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast;
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the woods and waters wild,
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than
he can understand.

Happy Poetry Month! I do hope to read more favorite poems around the blogosphere.