The Wandering Hawk

No golden coin lit that brown fist Like a goldsmith’s forge, since you came To my yellow hearth, with hounds at your wrist And bangles of hard flame; Nor have I seen, since you braved my door From herding by salt water, One prouder bird on this yewan floor— Ah, Sea-rogue O’Bruadir’s daughter.

Yet all the worth you’ve got from me

Would gild a tinker’s dream,

With amber locked in a frozen sea

And gold skimmed from a seam

Of evening on long, hilly dew—

Such wealth you'll only quarter

From one, whose minted words ring true For Sea-rogue O’Bruadir’s daughter!

This house of granite flames in gems

When doors let in the East;

Its evening walls have sleepy panes

To hold the burning West;

Here cream is dashed to wear a crown

And Autumn’s dream on water

Has borne remembered honey down To please O’Bruadir’s daughter.

Once island queens drank to my fill; But leaving their soft talk, Your poet worked in birdlime, till He caged a Connacht hawk With golden eyes on mountain game— She’s poising since I caught her; But you’re a bird I cannot tame, Ah, Sea-rogue O’Bruadir’s daughter!