Fuchsia Hedges in Connacht 

I think some saint of Eirinn, wandering far,
Found you, and drew you here, 

Damosels!
(For so I'll greet you in this alien air.) 

And like those maidens who were only known 
In their own land as Children of the King, 
Daughters of Charlemagne,
You have, by following that pilgrim-saint 
Become high votresses! 
You've made your palace-beauty dedicate, 
And your pomp serviceable! 
You stand before our folds. 

I think you came from some old Roman land: 
Most alien, but most Catholic are you: 
Your purple is the purple that enfolds In Passion Week, the Shrine; 
Your scarlet is the scarlet of the Wounds! 

You stand beside the furzes in our fields,
 You bring before our walls, before our doors, 
Lamps oi the Sanctuary! 
And, in this stony place,
The time the robin sings, 
Through your bells rings the Angelus!
—Padraic Colum

The Oregon Trail
 

The grizzled trapper of the log stockade,
Gaudy in buckskin sewn with beads and bells,
Hawk-eyed, his ears still echoing the yells
Of fierce Dakotas riding on their raid;
The coulec's murmur in the willows' shade; 
The glaring prairie; Indian village smells; 
Dust of the bison herd; the miracles 
Of hardihood whereby the West was made; 

Half fabulous from page on page they rise, 
Traced by an ailing hand, with failing eyes, 
Till, dark upon a clear and golden sky, 
The heroic Ogullallah lifts his lance 
And hurls, where war plumes in the distance dance, 
His doomed and unintelligible cry. 
—William Rose Benet

The Turquoise Bowl 
 

A bowl in the hand is the earth 
A carved fragile thing that you bold—
Lacquer, tumuoise and gold. 
Oh, lift it and turn it and see 
The winged sun sting its side like a bee. 
—Kathryn White Ryan

To Alice Meynell, In Pace 
 

There long shall stand adown the cypress paths 
A vase of alabaster faintly scrolled 
With Phidian dancers, wreathing in their hold 
Thy name amid the sunset aftermaths 

Here snowy birds of love shall build their raths
By dawns and twilights, where thine eyes unfold
In calm on him whose beauty's rime is told As lilies lift above their marshy baths. 

Out on the blustry moors the merchant train
 Shall breast the winters; soft behind the pane 
New lamps shall start and warmer hearth fires glow; 
Life's lodestone pluck fresh stars reflecting thine; 
With years convening solemnly and slow 
To nurse the flame upon thy deathless shrine. 
—Thomas Walsh 

The Old Woman
 

She keeps her nook, sitting with folded hands
And looking abroad with dim unquestioning gaze,
Her heart grown strangely quiet and tolerant.
She has learned patience: those she loved are gone,
And youth is gone, and all the dreams of youth,
And grief itself hath found its natural ending,
And now she feels there is no more to learn. 

Placid she sirs in gnarled simplicity, 
Not hills nor rocks more tranquil, and even as they
She bears Time's marks upon her patiently. 
Hers is the sober wisdom of the years, 
And now she ivairs for what she knows will come, 
Breathing the calmness of all quiet things,

Twilight and silence and a heart at peace. 
 

—John Bunker 

Moon Cup
 

She holds a curved cup of dreams
Within her ash-white hands,
As midst her singing stars she moves
Above the darkling lands.
 

And thence with fingers fairy-light
She lifts them one by one. 
Earth's parchEd minds besprinkling 
Till all her dreams are gone. 

Then followed by her waning stars, 
She sinks to gentle rest,
In silver silence canopied 
Upon the dawn's young brent. 
—Eleanor Rogers Cox