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GREEN BRANCHES 
 
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK ■ BOSTON • CHICAGO - DALLAS 
 ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 
 
 LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
 MELBOURNE 
 
 THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. 
 
 TORONTO 
 
 OCT 10 1316 
 
 ^ci, 
 
 ^4i5[);j^ 
 
 /)^ ^ I 
 
By 
 
 Author of "The Hill of Vision," "Songs 
 
 FROM THE Clay," "The Crock 
 
 OF Gold," etc. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 1916 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
l*.**" 
 
 ,1,1 
 
 1 
 
 M 
 

 Copyright, 1916 
 By the MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Set up and printed. Published October, 1916. 
 
 OCT iO i.^ib 
 
Of this first edition 500 copies have been 
 printed from type. 
 

 CONTENTS 
 
 THE AUTUMN IN IRELAND: 
 1915 
 
 THE SPRING IN IRELAND: 
 1916 
 
 JOY BE WITH US 
 
 
GREEN BRANCHES 
 
'^utunttt In Krelan6: 
 1915 
 
 (1) 
 
 It may be on a quiet mountain- 
 top, 
 
 Or in a valley folded among hills 
 
 You take your path, and often you 
 will stop 
 
 To hear the pleasant chatter of the 
 rills, 
 
 The piping of a wind in branches 
 green. 
 
 The murmuring of widely-lifted 
 spray 
 
 As long boughs swing 
 
 And hear the twittering 
 
Of drowsy birds when the great 
 
 sun is seen 
 Climbing the steep horizon to the 
 
 day. 
 
 The lovely moon trailing her silver 
 
 dress 
 By quiet waters. Each living star 
 Moving apart in holy quietness, 
 Sphere over golden sphere moving 
 
 afar. 
 These I can see; 
 And the unquiet zone 
 Rolling in snow along the edge of 
 
 sight. 
 The world is very fair, and I am 
 
 free 
 To see its beauty and to be 
 In solitude, and quite forget, and 
 
 quite 
 
Lose out of memory all I have 
 
 known 
 Of everything but this. 
 
 (2) 
 
 Straying apart in sad and mourn- 
 ful way, 
 
 Alone, or with my heart for com- 
 pany. 
 
 Keeping the tone of a dejected day 
 
 And a bewilderment that came to 
 me; 
 
 I said — The Spring 
 
 Will never come again, and there is 
 end 
 
 Of everything. 
 
 Day after day 
 
 The sap will ebb away from the 
 great tree, 
 
And when the sap is gone 
 Then piteously 
 She tumbles to the clay: 
 And we say only — Such a one 
 Had pleasant shade, but there is 
 end of her. — 
 
 And you, and even you, the year 
 Will drain and dry, and you will 
 disappear. 
 
 Then to my heart there came so 
 wild a stir. 
 
 And such great pity and astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 And such a start of fear and woe 
 had I, 
 
 That where I went I did not know. 
 
 And only this did know. 
 
 That you could die. 
 
(3) 
 
 I would have liked to sing from 
 
 fuller throat 
 To you who sang so well, but here 
 
 I stay 
 Resting the music on a falling note, 
 And hear it die away and die away, 
 With beauty unrehearsed, and life 
 
 and love 
 Unsung. 
 
 For I had clung. 
 
 With what of laughter and of 
 eagerness, 
 
 Unto the hope that I might chance 
 to be 
 
 The maker of a music nothing less 
 
 Than those great poets of anti- 
 quity, 
 
Who sang of clouds and winds, of 
 
 hills and clods. 
 Of trees and streams, and of the 
 
 mind of man ; 
 And chaunted too the universal 
 
 gods, 
 And their high guardianship since 
 
 time began; 
 And did not fail before a theme 
 
 although 
 It passed the reason. 
 
 (4) 
 
 I heard a bird sing in the woods 
 
 today 
 A failing song. 
 
 The times had caught on him. 
 In autumn boughs he tried a 
 
 wonted lay. 
 

 And was abashed to find his music 
 
 grim 
 As the crows song. 
 Then, when I raised an air 
 To comfort him, 
 I wretched was to hear 
 The crow did croak and chatter 
 
 everywhere 
 Inside my ear 
 
 And so, behold, 
 
 I am a saddened elf; 
 
 And, as a deer 
 
 Flies timidly to shade, 
 
 I fly to laughter and I hide myself, 
 
 And couch me in the coverts that I 
 
 made 
 Against those bold ambitions, and 
 
 forswear 
 The palm, the prize, or what it is 
 
 of gear 
 
 
A poet gets with his appointed 
 
 share 
 Of bread and beer. 
 
 (5) 
 
 Upon the grass I drop this tuneful 
 reed, 
 
 And turn from it aside, and turn 
 from more 
 
 That I had fancied to be mine in- 
 deed 
 
 Beyond all reclamation. See the 
 door 
 
 Set in the boundary wall yawns 
 windily. 
 
 It will be shut when I have wan- 
 dered through. 
 
 And open will no more again for me 
 
 This side of life whatever thing I 
 do. 
 
And so, good-bye, and so, good- 
 night to you. 
 And farewell all. Behold the lifted 
 
 hand, 
 And the long last look upon the 
 
 view, 
 And the last glimpse of that most 
 
 lovely land. 
 And thus away unto the mundane 
 
 sphere. 
 And look not back again nor turn 
 
 anew, 
 And hear no more that laughter at 
 
 the ear. 
 And sing no more for you. 
 

 151)4 
 
 Sprlitg In "Ireland: 
 1916 
 
 (1) 
 
 Do not forget my charge I beg of 
 
 you; 
 That of what flow'rs you find of 
 
 fairest hue 
 And sweetest odour you do gather 
 
 those 
 Are best of all the best— A fragrant 
 
 rose, 
 A tall calm lily from the waterside, 
 A half -blown poppy leaning at the 
 
 side 
 Its graceful head to dream among 
 
 the corn. 
 
Forget-me-nots that seem as 
 
 though the morn 
 Had tumbled down and grew into 
 
 the clay, 
 And hawthorn buds that swing 
 
 along the way 
 Easing the hearts of those who pass 
 
 them by 
 Until they find contentment— Do 
 
 not cry. 
 But gather buds, and with them 
 
 greenery 
 Of slender branches taken from a 
 
 tree 
 Well bannered by the spring that 
 
 saw them fall: 
 Then you, for you are cleverest of 
 
 all 
 Who have slim fingers and are 
 
 pitiful, 
 
Brimming your lap with bloom 
 
 that you may cull, 
 Will sit apart, and weave for every 
 
 head 
 A garland of the flow'rs you 
 
 gathered. 
 
 (2) 
 Be green upon their graves, 
 
 happy Spring, 
 For they were young and eager 
 
 who are dead; 
 Of all things that are young and 
 
 quivering 
 With eager life be they remem- 
 bered: 
 They move not here, they have 
 
 gone to the clay. 
 They cannot die again for liberty; 
 Be they remembered of their land 
 
 for aye; 
 
Green be their graves and green 
 their memory. 
 
 Fragrance and beauty come in 
 
 with the green, 
 The ragged bushes put on sweet 
 
 attire. 
 The birds forget how chill these 
 
 airs have been. 
 The clouds bloom out again and 
 
 move in fire; 
 Blue is the dawn of day, calm is 
 
 the lake, 
 And merry sounds are fitful in the 
 
 morn; 
 In covert deep the young black- 
 birds awake. 
 They shake their wings and sing 
 
 upon the morn. 
 
At springtime of the year you 
 
 came and swung 
 Green flags above the newly- 
 greening earth; 
 Scarce were the leaves unfolded, 
 
 they were young, 
 Nor had outgrown the wrinkles of 
 
 their birth: 
 Comrades they thought you of 
 
 their pleasant hour, 
 They had but glimpsed the sun 
 
 when they saw you; 
 They heard your songs e'er birds 
 
 had singing power, 
 And drank your blood e'er that 
 
 they drank the dew. 
 
 Then you went down, eind then, 
 
 and as in pain. 
 The Spring affrighted fled her 
 
 leafy ways, 
 

 
 
 The clouds came to the earth in 
 
 gusty rain. 
 And no sun shone again for many 
 
 days: 
 And day by day they told that one 
 
 was dead, 
 And day by day the season 
 
 mourned for you, 
 Until that count of woe was 
 
 finished, 
 And spring remembered all was 
 
 yet to do. 
 
 She came with mirth of wind and 
 
 eager leaf, 
 With scampering feet and reaching 
 
 out of wings, 
 She laughed among the boughs 
 
 and banished grief. 
 
 
And cared again for all her baby 
 
 things: 
 Leading along the joy that has to 
 
 be, 
 Bidding her timid buds think on 
 
 the May, 
 And told that summer comes with 
 
 victory. 
 And told the hope that is all 
 
 creatures stay. 
 
 Go Winter now unto your own 
 
 abode. 
 Your time is done, and Spring is 
 
 conqueror 
 Lift up with all your gear and take 
 
 your road. 
 For she is here and brings the sun 
 
 with her; 
 
Now are we resurrected, now are 
 
 we. 
 Who lay so long beneath an icy 
 
 hand. 
 New-risen into life and liberty. 
 Because the Spring is come into 
 
 our land 
 
 (3) 
 
 In other lands they may, 
 
 With public joy or dole along the 
 
 way. 
 With pomp and pagentry and loud 
 
 lament 
 Of drums and trumpets, and with 
 
 merriment 
 Of grateful hearts, lead into rest 
 
 and sted 
 The nation's dead. 
 
 
/ 
 
If we had drums and trumpets, if 
 
 we had 
 Aught of heroic pitch or accent 
 
 glad 
 To honour you as bids tradition 
 
 oia, 
 With banners flung or draped in 
 
 mournful fold, 
 And pacing cortege; these would 
 
 we not bring 
 For your last journeying. 
 
 We have no drums or trumpets; 
 
 naught have we 
 But some green branches taken 
 
 from a tree. 
 And flowers that grow at large in 
 
 mead and vale; 
 Nothing of choice have we, or of 
 
 avail 
 
To do you honour as our honour 
 
 deems, 
 And as your worth beseems. 
 
 Sleep drums and trumpets yet a 
 
 little time: 
 All ends and all begins, and there 
 
 is chime 
 At last where discord was, and joy 
 
 at last 
 Where woe wept out her eyes : be 
 
 not downcast, 
 Here is prosperity and goodly 
 
 cheer. 
 For life does follow death, and 
 
 death is here. 
 

 3oy »e Wltb V^s 
 
 Joy be with us, and honour close 
 
 the tale; 
 Now do we dip the prow, and 
 
 shake the sail, 
 And take the wind, and bid adieu 
 
 to rest. 
 
 With glad endeavour we begin the 
 
 quest 
 That destiny commands, though 
 
 where we go, 
 Or guided by what star, no man 
 
 doth know. 
 
 Unchartered is our course, our 
 hearts untried, 
 

 And we may weary e'er we take 
 
 the tide, 
 Or make fair haven from the 
 
 moaning sea. 
 
 Be ye propitous, winds of destiny, 
 
 On us at first blow not too boister- 
 ous bold; 
 
 All Ireland hath is packed into this 
 hold. 
 
 Her hopes fly at the peak. Now it 
 is dawn, 
 
 And we away. Be with us 
 Mananaun. 
 
 
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