LETTERMORE

These winter days on Lettermore

The brown west wind it sweeps the bay,

And icy rain beats on the bare

Unhomely fields that perish there:

The stony fields of Lettermore

That drink the white Atlantic spray.

And men who starve on Lettermore,

Cursing the haggard, hungry surf,

Will souse the autumn's bruised grains

To light dark fires within their brains

And fight with stones on Lettermore

Or sprawl beside the smoky turf.

When spring blows over Lettermore

To bloom the ragged furze with gold,

The lovely south wind's living breath

Is laden with the smell of death:

For fever breeds on Lettermore

To waste the eyes of young and old.

A black van comes to Lettermore;

The horses stumble on the stones,

The drivers curse,— for it is hard

To cross the hills from Oughterard

And cart the sick from Lettermore:

A stinking load of rags and bones.

But you will go to Lettermore

When white sea-trout are on the run,

When purple glows between the rocks

About Lord Dudley's fishing-box

Adown the road to Lettermore,

And wide seas tarnish in the sun.

And so you'll think of Lettermore

As a lost island of the blest:

With peasant lovers in a blue

Dim dusk, with heather drench'd in dew,

And the sweet peace of Lettermore

Remote and dreaming in the West.