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.