I SAT on cushioned otter skin: My word was law from Ith to Emen, And shook at Invar Amargin The hearts of the world-troubling seamen,
And drove tumult and war away From girl and boy and man and beast; The fields grew fatter day by day, The wild fowl of the air increased;
And every ancient Ollave said, While he bent down his fading head, ‘ He drives away the Northern cold.’ They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the beech leaves old.
I sat and mused and drank sweet wine; A herdsman came from inland valleys, Crying, the pirates drove his swine To fill their dark-beaked hollow galleys.
I called my battle-breaking men, And my loud brazen battle-cars From rolling vale and rivery glen; And under the blinking of the stars
Fell on the pirates by the deep, And hurled them in the gulph of sleep: These hands won many a torque of gold. They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the beech leaves old.
But slowly, as I shouting slew And trampled in the bubbling mire, In my most secret spirit grew A whirling and a wandering fire:
I stood: keen stars above me shone, Around me shone keen eyes of men: I laughed aloud and hurried on By rocky shore and rushy fen;
I laughed because birds fluttered by, And starlight gleamed, and clouds flew high, And rushes waved and waters rolled. They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the beech leaves old.
And now I wander in the woods When summer gluts the golden bees, Or in autumnal solitudes Arise the leopard-coloured trees;
Or when along the wintry strands The cormorants shiver on their rocks; I wander on, and wave my hands, And sing, and shake my heavy locks.
The grey wolf knows me; by one ear I lead along the woodland deer; The hares run by me growing bold. They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the beech leaves old.
I came upon a little town, That slumbered in the harvest moon, And passed a-tiptoe up and down, Murmuring, to a fitful tune,
How I have followed, night and day, A tramping of tremendous feet, And saw where this old tympan lay, Deserted on a doorway seat,
And bore it to the woods with me; Of some unhuman misery Our married voices wildly trolled. They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the beech leaves old.
I sang how, when day’ s toil is done, Orchil shakes out her long dark hair That hides away the dying sun And sheds faint odours through the air:
When my hand passed from wire to wire It quenched, with sound like falling dew, The whirling and the wandering fire; But lift a mournful ulalu,
For the kind wires are torn and still, And I must wander wood and hill Through summer’ s heat and winter’ s cold. They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the beech leaves old.
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