Author: WesternMan

I am come of the seed of the people, the people that sorrow; 
Who have no treasure but hope, 
No riches laid up but a memory of an ancient glory
My mother bore me in bondage, in bondage my mother was born, 
I am of the blood of serfs; 
The children with whom I have played, the men and women with whom I have eaten
Have had masters over them, have been under the lash of masters, 
and though gentle, have served churls. 
The hands that have touched mine, 
the dear hands whose touch Is familiar to me 
Have worn shameful manacles, have been bitten at the wrist by manacles, 
have grown hard with the manacles and the task-work of strangers.
I am flesh of the flesh of these lowly, I am bone of their bone I that have never submitted; 
I that have a soul greater than the souls of my people’s masters, 
I that have vision and prophecy, and the gift of fiery speech, 
I that have spoken with God on the top of his holy hill. 
And because I am of the people, I understand the people, 
I am sorrowful with their sorrow, I am hungry with their desire; 
My heart is heavy with the grief of mothers, 
My eyes have been wet with the tears of children, 
 I have yearned with old wistful men, 
And laughed and cursed with young men; 
 Their shame is my shame, and I have reddened for it 
Reddened for that they have served, they who should be free
Reddened for that they have gone in want, while others have been full, 
Reddened for that they have walked in fear of lawyers and their jailors. 
With their Writs of Summons and their handcuffs,
Men mean and cruel. 
I could have borne stripes on my body
Rather than this shame of my people. 
And now I speak, being full of vision:
I speak to my people, and I speak in my people’s name to
The masters of my people: 
I say to my people that they are holy, 
That they are august despite their chains. 
That they are greater than those that hold them
And stronger and purer, 
That they have but need of courage, and to call on the name of their God, 
God the unforgetting, the dear God who loves the people 
For whom he died naked, suffering shame.
And I say to my people’s masters: Beware 
Beware of the thing that is coming, beware of the risen people
Who shall take what ye would not give. 
Did ye think to conquer the people, or that law is stronger than life, 
And than men’s desire to be free? 
We will try it out with you ye that have harried and held, 
Ye that have bullied and bribed. 
Tyrants… hypocrites… liars!

The beauty of the world hath made me sad,
This beauty that will pass;
Sometimes my heart hath shaken with great joy
To see a leaping squirrel in a tree,
Or a red lady-bird upon a stalk,
Or little rabbits in a field at evening,
Lit by a slanting sun,
Or some green hill where shadows drifted by
Some quiet hill where mountainy man hath sown
And soon would reap; near to the gate of Heaven;
Or children with bare feet upon the sands
Of some ebbed sea, or playing on the streets
Of little towns in Connacht,
Things young and happy.
And then my heart hath told me:
These will pass,
Will pass and change, will die and be no more,
Things bright and green, things young and happy;
And I have gone upon my way
Sorrowful.