Ireland

John James Piatt (1835–1917)

A Seaside Portrait

A GREAT, still Shape, alone,

She sits (her harp has fallen) on the sand,

And sees her children, one by one, depart:—

Her cloak (that hides what sins beside her own!)

Wrapped fold on fold about her. Lo,

She comforts her fierce heart,

As wailing some, and some gay-singing go,

With the far vision of that Greater Land

Deep in the Atlantic skies,

Saint Brandan’s Paradise!

Another Woman there,

Mighty and wondrous fair,

Stands on her shore-rock:—one uplifted hand

Holds a quick-piercing light

That keeps long sea-ways bright;

She beckons with the other, saying “Come,

O landless, shelterless,

Sharp-faced with hunger, worn with long distress:—

Come hither, finding home!

Lo, my new fields of harvest, open, free,

By winds of blessing blown,

Whose golden corn-blades shake from sea to sea—

Fields without walls that all the people own!”