- The Sligo Poems -
 
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With this page I give his readers the opportunity to visualise the locations that have made their way into literature, though not necessarily onto the map.
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Lough Achree (Hart Lake)
Boulder at Hart Lake
And he saw how the reeds grew dark
He heard while he sang and dreamed
And he saw young men and young girls
The dancers crowded about him
But Bridget drew him by the sleeve
The bread and the wine had a doom,
He played with the merry old men
He bore her away in his arms,
O'Driscoll scattered the cards
But he heard high up in the air
Lough Achree (also Hart Lake or Heart Lake), formed by an earthquake in 1490 and probably Ireland's youngest lake, is said to be one of the numerous fairy portals around Sligo.
Hart Lake
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
He mused beside
He wandered by the sands of Lissadell;
He mused beside the Well of Scanavin,
He slept under the Hill of Lugnagall;
When I had laid it on the floor
Though I am old with wandering
The Stolen Child
Red Hanrahan's Song about Ireland
Under a bitter black wind that blows from the left hand;
Our courage breaks like an old tree in a black wind and dies,
But we have hidden in our hearts the flame out of the eyes
Of Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.
The wind has bundled up the clouds high over Knock- narea,
And thrown the thunder on the stones for all that Maeve can say.
Angers that are like noisy clouds have set our hearts abeat;
But we have all bent low and low and kissed the quiet feet
Of Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.
The yellow pool has overflowed high up on Clooth-na-Bare,
For the wet winds are blowing out of the clinging air;
Like heavy flooded waters our bodies and our blood;
But purer than a tall candle before the Holy Rood
Is Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.
The Host of the Air
The wild duck and the drake
From the tall and the tufted reeds
Of the drear Hart Lake.
At the coming of night-tide,
And dreamed of the long dim hair
Of Bridget his bride.
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.
Who danced on a level place,
And Bridget his bride among them,
With a sad and a gay face.
And many a sweet thing said,
And a young man brought him red wine
And a young girl white bread.
Away from the merry bands,
To old men playing at cards
With a twinkling of ancient hands.
For these were the host of the air;
He sat and played in a dream
Of her long dim hair.
And thought not of evil chance,
Until one bore Bridget his bride
Away from the merry dance.
The handsomest young man there,
And his neck and his breast and his arms
Were drowned in her long dim hair.
And out of his dream awoke:
Old men and young men and young girls
Were gone like a drifting smoke;
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.
To add to the fascination of the place, an eagle was circling high above the mountain as I approached the lake.
The Lake Isle of Innisfree
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
Innisfree is a tiny island on Lough Gill. In the Millenium Forest at its shores a sculpture known as Yeats' Sacred Space points towards it.
The Man who dreamed of Faeryland
the Well of Scanavin
(Hawk's Well)
His heart hung all upon a silken dress,
And he had known at last some tenderness,
Before earth took him to her stony care;
But when a man poured fish into a pile,
It Seemed they raised their little silver heads,
And sang what gold morning or evening sheds
Upon a woven world-forgotten isle
Where people love beside the ravelled seas;
That Time can never mar a lover's vows
Under that woven changeless roof of boughs:
The singing shook him out of his new ease.
His mind ran all on money cares and fears,
And he had known at last some prudent years
Before they heaped his grave under the hill;
But while he passed before a plashy place,
A lug-worm with its grey and muddy mouth
Sang that somewhere to north or west or south
There dwelt a gay, exulting, gentle race
Under the golden or the silver skies;
That if a dancer stayed his hungry foot
It seemed the sun and moon were in the fruit:
And at that singing he was no more wise.
He mused upon his mockers: without fail
His sudden vengeance were a country tale,
When earthy night had drunk his body in;
But one small knot-grass growing by the pool
Sang where - unnecessary cruel voice -
Old silence bids its chosen race rejoice,
Whatever ravelled waters rise and fall
Or stormy silver fret the gold of day,
And midnight there enfold them like a fleece
And lover there by lover be at peace.
The tale drove his fine angry mood away.
And might have known at last unhaunted sleep
Under that cold and vapour-turbaned steep,
Now that the earth had taken man and all:
Did not the worms that spired about his bones
proclaim with that unwearied, reedy cry
That God has laid His fingers on the sky,
That from those fingers glittering summer runs
Upon the dancer by the dreamless wave.
Why should those lovers that no lovers miss
Dream, until God burn Nature with a kiss?
The man has found no comfort in the grave.
the sands of Lissadell
Hill of Lugnagall
The Song Of Wandering Aengus
Because a fire was in my head
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
at Hazelwood
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Diarmuid and Grania's Bed 
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WE who are old, old and gay, As they were on the run from her husband, Diarmait and Grainne (Diarmuid and Grania) are said to have spent the night in the shelter of a cave in Benbulben, known as Diarmait's (and Grainne's) Bed. |
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The Fiddler of Dooney
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Folk dance like a wave of the sea; My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet, My brother in Moharabuiee.
I passed my brother and cousin:
When we come at the end of time,
For the good are always the merry,
And when the folk there spy me,
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The Ballad of Father O'Hart
(or The Priest of Colooney)
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In penal days rode out To a Shoneen who had free lands And his own snipe and trout.
In trust took he John's lands;
But Father John went up,
All loved him, only the shoneen,
The birds, for he opened their cages
But if when anyone died
And these were the works of John,
There was no human keening;
The young birds and old birds
Keening from Inishmurray.
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The Hosting of the Sidhe
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And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare; Caolte tossing his burning hair, And Niamh calling, 'Away, come away; Empty your heart of its mortal dream. The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round, Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound, Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam, Our arms are waving, our lips are apart, And if any gaze on our rushing band, We come between him and the deed of his hand, We come between him and the hope of his heart.' The host is rushing 'twixt night and day; And where is there hope or deed as fair? Caolte tossing his burning hair, And Niamh calling, 'Away, come away.'
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The Wild Swans at Coole
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The woodland paths are dry, Under the October twilight the water Mirrors a still sky; Upon the brimming water among the stones Are nine-and-fifty Swans.
The nineteenth autumn has come upon me
I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
Unwearied still, lover by lover,
But now they drift on the still water,
(It appears that since Yeats' last count they
 
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In Memory Of Eva Gore-Booth And Con Markiewicz
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Great windows open to the south, Two girls in silk kimonos, both Beautiful, one a gazelle. But a raving autumn shears Blossom from the summer's wreath; The older is condemned to death, Pardoned, drags out lonely years Conspiring among the ignorant. I know not what the younger dreams - Some vague Utopia - and she seems, When withered old and skeleton-gaunt, An image of such politics. Many a time I think to seek One or the other out and speak Of that old Georgian mansion, mix pictures of the mind, recall That table and the talk of youth, Two girls in silk kimonos, both Beautiful, one a gazelle.
Dear shadows, now you know it all,
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Under Saturn
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Imagine that lost love, inseparable from my thought Because I have no other youth, can make me pine; For how should I forget the wisdom that you brought, The comfort that you made? Although my wits have gone On a fantastic ride, my horse's flanks are spurred By childish memories of an old cross Pollexfen, And of a Middleton, whose name you never heard, And of a red-haired Yeats whose looks, although he died Before my time, seem like a vivid memory. You heard that labouring man who had served my people. He said Upon the open road, near to the Sligo quay - No, no, not said, but cried it out - 'You have come again, And surely after twenty years it was time to come.' I am thinking of a child's vow sworn in vain Never to leave that valley his fathers called their home.
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At the Hawk's Well
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The Hawk's Well, also called Tubber Scanavin, can be found on top of Tullaghan Hill near Coolaney. Like all wells in Ireland, it is attributed to St Patrick, and even though the Ox Mountains stretch between the well and the sea, its water level rises and falls with the tide. Synopsis of the Play: The play is set by a dried up well on a desolate mountainside which is guarded by a hawk-like woman. An old man has kept camp there for fifty years, waiting to drink the miraculous waters from the well which occasionally rise up. Cuchulain arrives at the spot, having heard a story that the waters bring immortality. The Old Man urges Cuchulain to leave the well, telling of his wasted lifetime there and how, even when the waters did rise up, he was thwarted by a sudden urge to sleep. But Cuchulain is determined to stay and convinced that he shall soon drink the waters. While they speak of a hawk which had attacked Cuchulain earlier in the day, and which the old man claims is a supernatural being which carries a curse of discontent and violence, the Guardian of the Well seems to fall into a trance, arises, and begins to dance with hawk-like motions. She then leaves the stage as the well waters bubble up. Cuchulain pursues her, but unable to find her he returns to the well to be informed by the Old Man he has missed the waters. Oblivious, he rushes out again to face the warrior women the Guardian of the Well has called out to battle, ignoring the Old Man's pleas to stay with him. (Source: Wikipedia) |
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from The Untiring Ones
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...Such a mortal too was Clooth-na-bare, who went all over the world seeking a lake deep enough to drown her faery life, of which she had grown weary, leaping from hill to lake and lake to hill, and setting up a cairn of stones wherever her feet lighted, until at last she found the deepest water in the world in little Lough Ia, on the top of the Birds' Mountain at Sligo. There are two lakes on Bird's Mountain (Slieve Daeane); it is generally accepted that Yeats' Lough Ia is Lough Dagee (or Lough Dagea), but since it is even higher up on the mountain, I think he might be referring to Lough Lumman. Despite being also called Two Birds' Mountain, Slieve Daeane is actually guarded by three territorial falcons; as soon as I had moved on from the plateau to climb the first peak, they made their presence known by a noisy display of their flying skills. After that didn't scare me away, one of them followed me for three hours, circling high above my head and squawking abuse at me. Only when I started my descent from Lough Lumman did he finally retreat.
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from Under Ben Bulben
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In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid. An ancestor was rector there Long years ago, a church stands near, By the road an ancient cross. No marble, no conventional phrase; On limestone quarried near the spot By his command these words are cut:
Cast a cold eye
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(Yeats' Grave)  |
(Yeats' Grave) |
Elsinore Lodge
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Did I miss anything? If you would like to see a location I haven't covered on this page, feel free to contact me at
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Yeats Facing His Memorial Building
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© Frank L. Ludwig