O stony grey soil of
The laugh from my love you thieved;
You took the gay child of my
And gave me your clod-conceived. You clogged the feet of my
And I believed that my
Had the poise and stride of
And his voice my thick tongued mumble.
You told me the plough was immortal!
O green-life conquering plough!
The mandril stained, your coulter
In the smooth lea-field of my brow.
You sang on steaming dunghillsA song of cowards' brood,
You perfumed my clothes with weasel itch,
You fed me on swinish
You flung a ditch on my
Of beauty, love and truth.
O stony grey soil of
You burgled my bank of youth!
Lost the long hours of
All the women that love young men.
O can I still stroke the monster's
Or write with unpoisoned pen.
His name in these lonely
Or mention the dark fields
The first gay flight of my
Got caught in a peasant's prayer.
Mullahinsa,
Drummeril,
Black Shanco-Wherever I turn I
In the stony grey soil of
Dead loves that were born for me.
