there was anger in his
heart. "You think that all that life is over!" he said, and Henry nodded
his head.

"Listen," said Marsh, taking a letter from his pocket, "here is a poem,
translated from Irish, that was sent to me by a friend of mine in
Dublin. His name is Galway, and I'd like you to know him. Listen! It's
called 'A Song for Mary Magdalene.'"

He read the poem in a slow, crooning voice that seemed always on the
point of becoming ridiculous, but never did become so.

O woman of the gleaming hair
(Wild hair that won men's gaze to thee),
Weary thou turnest from the common stare,
For the Shuiler[2] Christ is calling thee.

O woman with the wild thing's heart,
Old sin hath set a snare for thee:
In the forest ways forespent thou art,
But the hunter Christ shall pity thee.

O woman spendthrift of thyself,
Spendthrift of all the love in thee,
Sold unto sin for little pelf,
The captain Christ shall ransom thee.

O woman that no lover's kiss
(Tho' many a kiss was given thee)
Could slake thy love, is it not for this
The hero Christ shall die for thee?

They were quiet for a while, and then Marsh turned to Henry and said,
"Is that alien to you?"

"No," he answered, "but I did not say that it was all alien!..."

"Or this?" Marsh interrupted, taking up the manuscript again. "Galway
sent these translations to me so that I might be the first to see them.
He always does that. This one is called 'Lullaby of a Woman of the
Mountain.'"

Little gold head, my house's candle,
You will guide all wayfarers that walk this country.

Little soft mouth that my breast has known,
Mary will kiss you as she passes.

Little round cheek, O smoother than satin,
Iosa will lay His hand upon you.

Mary's kiss on my baby's mouth,
Christ's little hand on my darling's cheek!

House, be still, and ye little grey mice,
Lie close to-night in your hidden lairs.

Moths on the window, fold your wings,
Little black chafers, silence your humming.

Plover and curlew fly not over my house,
Do not speak, wild barnacle, passing over this mountain.

Things of the mountain that wake in the night time,
Do not stir to-night till the daylight whitens.

"That's alive, isn't it?" Marsh, now openly angry, demanded. "Do you
think that song doesn't kindle the hearts of mothers all over the
world?... I can imagine Eve crooning it to little Cai