ON BALLYTEIGUE BAY

I've heard the sea-dead three nights come keening

And crying to my door.

Why will they affright me with their threening

Forevermore!

O have they no grave in the salt sea-places

To lay them in?

Do they know, do they know — with their cold dead faces!—

Know... my sin?

There's blood on my soul. The Lord cannot wipe it

Away with His own blood.

I've beaten my breast with blows that stripe it,

And burned His Rood

With kisses that shrivel my lips — that shrivel

To sin on the air.

But the night and the storm cry on me evil.

Does He not care?

There's blood on my soul: but then... she should never

Have said it was his — the child —

And hers — for she knew I'd never forgive her...

I grew so wild

There was just one thing to be done — to kill her:

Just one — no more.

I took the keen steel... one stroke would still her...

I counted four.

And she fell — fell down on the kelp — none near her.

But when she lay so fair

I kissed her... because I knew I should fear her,

And smoothed her hair;

And shut her two eyes that fixed me fearless

Of death and pain.

And the blood on my hand I wiped off tearless —

And that on my brain.

And I buried her quickly. The thorn-trees cover

Her grave with spines. I pray

That each in its fall will prick her and shove her

To colder clay.

But... yonder!... she's up! and moans in the heather

A whimpering thing!

I'll bury her deeper in Autumn weather...

Or Winter... or Spring.

And then if she comes with them still to call me

Each night, I'll tell her loud

He was mine! and laugh when they try to pall me

With sea and shroud.

And I'll swear not to care for Christ or Devil.

They'll skitter back

To the waves, at that, and be gone with their revel....

God spare me the rack!