ng
against Death, that is standing in her two eyes, and will not call me
with a word.

TO THE OAKS OF GLENCREE

My arms are round you, and I lean
Against you, while the lark
Sings over us, and golden lights, and green
Shadows are on your bark.

There'll come a season when you'll stretch
Black boards to cover me;
Then in Mount Jerome I will lie, poor wretch,
With worms eternally.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] (The accent is on the last syllable.)

_Nora Hopper Chesson_

Nora Hopper was born in Exeter on January 2, 1871, and married W. H.
Chesson, a well-known writer, in 1901. Although the Irish element in
her work is acquired and incidental, there is a distinct if somewhat
fitful race consciousness in _Ballads in Prose_ (1894) and _Under
Quickened Boughs_ (1896). She died suddenly April 14, 1906.

A CONNAUGHT LAMENT

I will arise and go hence to the west,
And dig me a grave where the hill-winds call;
But O were I dead, were I dust, the fall
Of my own love's footstep would break my rest!

My heart in my bosom is black as a sloe!
I heed not cuckoo, nor wren, nor swallow:
Like a flying leaf in the sky's blue hollow
The heart in my breast is, that beats so low.

Because of the words your lips have spoken,
(O dear black head that I must not follow)
My heart is a grave that is stripped and hollow,
As ice on the water my heart is broken.

O lips forgetful and kindness fickle,
The swallow goes south with you: I go west
Where fields are empty and scythes at rest.
I am the poppy and you the sickle;
My heart is broken within my breast.

_Eva Gore-Booth_

Eva Gore-Booth, the second daughter of Sir Henry Gore-Booth and the
sister of Countess Marcievicz, was born in Sligo, Ireland, in 1872.
She first appeared in "A. E."'s anthology, _New Songs_, in which so
many of the modern Irish poets first came forward.

Her initial volume, _Poems_ (1898), showed practically no
distinction--not even the customary "promise." But _The One and the
Many_ (1904) and _The Sorrowful Princess_ (1907) revealed the gift of
the Celtic singer who is half mystic, half minstrel. Primarily
philosophic, her verse often turns to lyrics as haunting as the two
examples here reprinted.

THE WAVES OF BREFFNY

The grand road from the mountain goes shining to the sea,
And there is traffic on it and many a horse and cart,