Only a field by a stream

At the slope of a hill,

Only a twisted tree

By a ruined mill.

After the toil and all the wastage of years,

Deep in the dark cave of the brain

There still endures

Beneath the burnt out ashes of dead fears

A silent place,

A fount of tears.

Here Cuchulain fought beside the ford

And Sarsfield rode on Limerick town

Through the tumultous night.

And Robert Emmet upon the scaffold

Sheathed his sword.

Here all the history of the Irish race

From the heights of glory

To most deep disgrace

Passed in the mind of a boy,

Dream after heroic dream,

Beside a ruined mill

And a swift stream,

Beneath the shadow of a twisted tree.

Layer after layer of conciousness grows cold

And one by one remembered rooms grow dark,

Beloved faces fade

And idols fall;

The broken heart is still

The last light burns.

Night has descended.

Behind the darkened eyes

The long day has ended.

As once again the huge fantastic figures pass

Silent as sleep,

With the last breath

Destroying death.

Over the dark hill

A child comes home.

All is forgiven now,

Only the dream remains

To ease the pains

Of purgatory.

O my son! My son!

Pray for me.

And pray that no man may touch

A twisted tree.

November 1960