Comfort

Now she need dread no more to grow
Too old for him, she need not know
The bitterness when he who was
All hers turns to some younger face,
And she his mother stands aside,
Bidding her heart be satisfied.

She need not to her own heart say,
'Fool, to be jealous! Now give way.
The young are for the young, and all
The new things are but natural.
Cast no least shadow on his feast;
Be glad just to be second best.'

She need not to her chill heart tell
She's loved a different way, but well.
And like that bird who leans her heart
Upon a thorn to ease its smart
Turn to the child who's taken his love
So that her darling son approve.

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poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Vestal

She goes unwedded all her days
Because some man she never knew,
Her destined mate, has won his bays,
Passed the low door of darkness through.

Sometimes she has a wild surmise
Of what dear name he used to have,
And what the colour of his eyes,
And was he gay, or was he grave.

Or if his hair was brown or gold,
Or if his voice was low and clear
To tell his love with, never told
To hers or any woman's ear.

His voice is lost upon the wind
And when the rain beats on her heart
His eyes elude her, warm and kind,
Where the dim shadows steal apart.

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poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Foggy Dew

A splendid place is London, with golden store,
For them that have the heart and hope and youth galore;
But mournful are its streets to me, I tell you true,
For I'm longing sore for Ireland in the foggy dew.

The sun he shines all day here, so fierce and fine,
With never a wisp of mist at all to dim his shine;
The sun he shines all day here from skies of blue:
He hides his face in Ireland in the foggy dew.

The maids go out to milking in the pastures gray,
The sky is green and golden at dawn of the day;
And in the deep-drenched meadows the hay lies new,
And the corn is turning yellow in the foggy dew.

Mavrone ! if I might feel now the dew on my face,
And the wind from the mountains in that remembered place,
I'd give the wealth of London, if mine it were to do,
And I'd travel home to Ireland and the foggy dew.

poem by Katharine Tynan
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A Hero

He was so foolish, the poor lad,
He made superior people smile
Who knew not of the wings he had
Budding and growing all the while;
Nor that the laurel wreath was made
Already for his curly head.

Silly and childish in his ways;
They said: 'His future comes to naught.'
His future! In the dreadful days
When in a toil his feet were caught
He hacked his way to glory bright
Before his day went down in night.

He fretted wiser folk--small blame!
Such futile, feeble brains were his.
Now we doff hats to hear his name,
Ask pardon where his spirit is,

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poem by Katharine Tynan
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Mediation

If Thou, Lord God, willest to judge
This, Thy very piteous clay
Which to save Christ did not grudge
His last dying, I shall say:
Lord, I interpose Christ's death
'Twixt these children and Thy wrath.

Then if Thou shouldst say: Their shame
Is as scarlet in Mine eyes--
I shall ask : Who took their blame?
Look, Lord, on this Sacrifice!
Is Thy Son's blood not more bright
Which hath washed their scarlet white?

Then, if Thou Thy wrath should'st keep
And Thy gaze should'st still avert
From Thy Son's most piteous sheep,
I shall ask : Who bare the hurt?

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poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Bride

WEAVE me no wreath of orange blossom,
No bridal white shall me adorn;
I wear a red rose in my bosom;
To-morrow I shall wear the thorn.

Bring me no gauds to deck my beauty,
Put by the jewels and the lace;
My love to honour and to duty
Was plighted ere he saw my face.

I hear his impatient charger neighing,
I hear the trumpets blow afar!
His comrades ride, as to a Maying,
Jesting and splendid to the war.

Why is my lady-mother weeping?
Why is my father grievèd sore?
Oh, love, God have you in His keeping,
The day you leave your true-love's door.

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poem by Katharine Tynan
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Any Woman

I am the pillars of the house;
The keystone of the arch am I.
Take me away, and roof and wall
Would fall to ruin me utterly.

I am the fire upon the hearth,
I am the light of the good sun,
I am the heat that warms the earth,
Which else were colder than a stone.

At me the children warm their hands;
I am their light of love alive.
Without me cold the hearthstone stands,
Nor could the precious children thrive.

I am the twist that holds together
The children in its sacred ring,
Their knot of love, from whose close tether
No lost child goes a-wandering.

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poem by Katharine Tynan
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Recompense: (For Lord Kilhacken)

That which I saved I lost
And that I lost I found,
And you are mine, oh tender little ghost,
Whose grave is holy ground.

That which I kept is flown,
So fast the children grow,
The only child I keep to be my own
I lost long years ago.

The little ones that stayed
Slip from me while I cry:
Oh, not so fast, so fast, you golden-head.
Swift as the wind they fly.

Not two days are the same.
To-morrow will not see
To-day's young children, crested like a flame,
Gathered about my knee.

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poem by Katharine Tynan
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A Girl's Song

The Meuse and Marne have little waves;
The slender poplars o'er them lean.
One day they will forget the graves
That give the grass its living green.

Some brown French girl the rose will wear
That springs above his comely head;
Will twine it in her russet hair,
Nor wonder why it is so red.

His blood is in the rose's veins,
His hair is in the yellow corn.
My grief is in the weeping rains
And in the keening wind forlorn.

Flow softly, softly, Marne and Meuse;
Tread lightly all ye browsing sheep;

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poem by Katharine Tynan
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Starling

The starling in the ivy now,
For to amuse his dear,
Mimics the dog, the cat, the cow,
Blackbird and Chanticleer.

The starling's an accomplished mime:
Between his love-making
He solaces her brooding-time
By many a madcap thing.

He is the saw, the spade, the scythe,
He rings the dinner bell;
Chuckles of laughter, small and blithe,
Of self-laudations tell.

Now by the battle-field he mocks
As though 'twere but a game,
Thunder with which the belfry rocks
And the great bursts of flame.

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poem by Katharine Tynan
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