From the Burren

I

Leagues upon leagues spread these sun-warmed rocks,
While over my head the breeze swept by,
Grey was it, all grey, yet a grey so clear
That it shone self-lit, like some half-veiled sky.
“Are you rocks, mere rocks, bald earth?” I asked.
“Nay some Titan for sure hath hitherward strayed,
Touched your tops with a god’s own hand,
Over your surface some wild tune played;
Till suddenly, lo! no longer mere rocks,
Spawn of blind forces, dumb things of earth,
But Creatures of Vision, intent, high-planned
Hewn and shaped to a conscious birth.
See how a chisel hath plainly wrought!
Queen of the Arts, with her God-sent gift,
Sculpture herself hath been striving here
Spirit and senses alike to lift.
Or again, up yonder, grey height on height,
Tier above tier and no touch of soil,
Bastion on bastion, solidly planned,
Hewn, one dare swear, with a nation’s toil,
Rightful resort for adventurous men,
See yon portcullis high-perched o’erhead,
From beneath which marched (can we doubt it?) of yore
Fierce fighting septs of a race long dead?”

Heathery, wine-flushed hills in the sun;
Mountainous peaks, bepinnacled, steep;
Vast domes, lost in a dream of snow;
Billowy downs, beloved of sheep;
Dear are you all, yet closer, more dear
Deep in some innermost pucker of soul,
Reign and will reign for me ever these grey hills,
Till coldly and gravely the last tides roll.

II

No hint, no touch of grim utility,
Earth’s busy functions sleep abandoned here;
Corn-grower, root-grower, nourisher of grain,
All are forgotten; nakedly austere.
Nought but herself, her inmost core, survives,
Stripped to the elements; enskyed and pure,
Remote, and stern, and coldly sanctified;
Pale as a ghost, yet rock-fast to endure.

And therefore, Burren hills, to me you seem
Shrines meet for that which is, and which is not;
Approach, beloved ones! Hasten! All is clear,
No bidding need you--you the unforgot!
The door stands open; only come, ah come;
Come from your far-off realms, with noiseless tread,
Come as you were, no dearer could you be--
The Loved, the Lost, the Sundered and the Dead!

Wide glistening pavements fit for ghostly feet,
Where never thought of mart or street intrude,
Only from ledge to ledge spent rain-drops drip,
And half-heard tinklings stir the solitude.
Imponderable wanderers! Shadowy all!
Ghost after ghost; half-veiled; grey muffled; while
With spirit-looks, visions seen in sleep,
Eyes seem to glimmer, lips austerely smile.

Again at dusk-time, or when moonbeams lie
Far on the sheeted silence, fold on fold;
Then with a swifter sequence, soft as light,
Life’s semblances enwrap this shadowy cold.
Like autumn leaves, like high-borne clouds, they come
Strange shapes; and others, others, ah, not strange!
Not strange, God knows, but intimately dear,
Untouched by time, defiant of all change.

And therefore, Burren hills, grey Burren hills,
Soul of fierce Clare, wild West of all our West,
No mindless tract of earth or strand thou seem’st,
Such as dull maps and solemn charts attest.
Here ’mid your solitudes, as ’mid the crowds,
Alike for me thou shinest, realm apart;
Open to all we pine for, pray for, hope;
Sanctified Home-land of th’ unchanging heart.