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[Index to poems in the collection by Padraic Colum]

. The Plougher

    SUNSET and silence! A man: around him earth savage, earth broken;
    Beside him two horses—a plough!

    Earth savage, earth broken, the brutes, the dawn man there in the sunset,
    And the Plough that is twin to the Sword, that is founder of cities!

    "Brute-tamer, plough-maker, earth-breaker! Can'st hear?
       There are ages between us.
    "Is it praying you are as you stand there alone in the sunset?

    "Surely our sky-born gods can be naught to you, earth child and earth master?
    "Surely your thoughts are of Pan, or of Wotan, or Dana?

    "Yet, why give thought to the gods? Has Pan led your brutes where they stumble?
    "Has Dana numbed pain of the child-bed, or Wotan put hands to your plough?

    "What matter your foolish reply! O, man, standing lone and bowed earthward,
    "Your task is a day near its close. Give thanks to the night-giving God."
        .    .    .     .    .    .
    Slowly the darkness falls, the broken lands blend with the savage;
    The brute-tamer stands by the brutes, a head's breadth only above them.

    A head's breadth? Ay, but therein is hell's depth, and the height up to heaven,
    And the thrones of the gods and their halls, their chariots, purples, and splendors.

    Padraic Colum

. An Old Woman of the Roads

    O, TO have a little house!
    To own the hearth and stool and all!
    The heaped up sods upon the fire,
    The pile of turf against the wall!

    To have a clock with weights and chains
    And pendulum swinging up and down!
    A dresser filled with shining delph,
    Speckled and white and blue and brown!

    I could be busy all the day
    Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor,
    And fixing on their shelf again
    My white and blue and speckled store!

    I could be quiet there at night
    Beside the fire and by myself,
    Sure of a bed and loth to leave
    The ticking clock and the shining delph!

    Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark,
    And roads where there's never a house nor bush,
    And tired I am of bog and road,
    And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!

    And I am praying to God on high,
    And I am praying Him night and day,
    For a little house—a house of my own—
    Out of the wind's and the rain's way.

    Padraic Colum

[Index to poems in the collection by Padraic Colum]


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