James Stephens

James Stephens was an Irish novelist and poet, whose literary output includes many retellings of Irish myths and fairy tales. He was born on February 9, 1880, and passed away on December 26, 1950. Notable works include 'The Crock of Gold' and 'The Demi-Gods'. Stephens also wrote several well-regarded collections of poetry, including 'The Hill of Vision' and 'Insurrections'. His work is characterized by a blend of myth, fantasy, and modernism, capturing the spirit and culture of Ireland.

February 9, 1880

December 26, 1950

English

James Stephens

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Mary Ruane

    The sky-like girl whom we knew!
        She dressed herself to go to the fair
    In a dress of white and blue;
    A white lace cap, and ribbons white
        She wore in her hair;
    She does not hear in the night
    Her mother crying for her,
        Where,
            Deep down in the sea,
    She rolls and lingers to and fro
            Unweariedly.

James Stephens

Merrion Square (The Rocky Road To Dublin)

    Grey clouds on the tinted sky,
    A drifting moon, a quiet breeze
    Drooping mournfully to cry
    In the branches of the trees.

    The crying wind, the sighing trees,
    The ruffled stars, the darkness falling
    Down the sky, and on the breeze
    A belated linnet calling.

James Stephens

Midnight (The Adventures Of Seumas Beg)

    And then I wakened up in such a fright;
        I thought I heard a movement in the room
    But did not dare to look; I snuggled right
        Down underneath the bedclothes, then the boom
    Of a tremendous voice said, "Sit up, lad,
        And let me see your face."    So up I sat,
    Although I didn't want to.    I was glad
        I did though, for it was an angel that
    Had called me, and he said, he'd come to know
        Was I the boy who wouldn't say his prayers
    Nor do his sums, and that I'd have to go
        Straight down to hell because of such affairs.
    ... I said I'd be converted and do good
        If he would let me off, he said he would.

James Stephens

Mistress Quiet-Eyes

While I sit beside the window
I can hear the pigeons coo,
That the air is warm and blue,
And how well the young bird flew -
Then I fold my arms and scold the heart
That thought the pigeons knew.

While I sit beside the window
I can watch the flowers grow
Till the seeds are ripe and blow
To the fruitful earth below -
Then I shut my eyes and tell my heart
The flowers cannot know.

While I sit beside the window
I am growing old and drear;
Does it matter what I hear,
What I see, or what I fear?
I can fold my hands and hush my heart
That is straining to a tear.

The earth is gay with leaf and flower,
The fruit is ripe upon the tree,
The pigeons coo in the swinging bower,
But I sit wearily
Watching a beggar-woman nurse

James Stephens

Mount Street (The Rocky Road To Dublin)

    Here and there on the wings of night
    A fleck of blue and purple light,
    A scrap of cloud, a bird, a star,
    A comet hurrying afar
    On the abyss, and the moon
    Standing in her silver shoon.

    On the summit of the sky,
    Delicate and proud and high,
    The silver moon on a silver sea
    Spins her silver broidery
    While the stars send down a light
    Here and there on the wings of night.

James Stephens

Nancy Walsh

    I, without bite or sup,
        If thou wert fated for me,
    I would up
        And would go after thee
    Through mountains.

    A thousand thanks from me
        To God have gone,
    Because I have not lost my senses to thee,
    Though it was hardly I escaped from thee,
        O ringleted one!

James Stephens

Nancy Walsh

    It is not on her gown
    She fears to tread;
    It is her hair
    Which tumbles down
    And strays
    About her ways
    That she must care.

    And she lives nigh this place:
    The dead would rise
    If they could see her face;
    The dead would rise
    Only to hear her sing:
    But death is blind, and gives not ear nor eye
    To anything.

    We would leave behind
    Both wife and child,
    And house and home;
    And wander blind,
    And wander thus,
    And ever roam,
    If she would come to us
    In Erris.

    Softly she said to me,
    Be patient till the night comes,
    And I will go with thee.

James Stephens

O'Bruaidar

    I will sing no more songs: the pride of my country I sang
        Through forty long years of good rhyme, without any avail;
    And no one cared even as much as the half of a hang
        For the song or the singer, so here is an end to the tale.

    If a person should think I complain and have not got the cause,
        Let him bring his eyes here and take a good look at my hand,
    Let him say if a goose-quill has calloused this poor pair of paws
        Or the spade that I grip on and dig with out there in the land?

    When the great ones were safe and renowned and were rooted and tough,
        Though my mind went to them and took joy in the fortune of those,
    And pride in their pride and their fame, they gave little enough,
        Not as much as two boots f...

James Stephens

O'Connell Bridge (The Rocky Road To Dublin)

    In Dublin town the people see
    Gorgeous clouds sail gorgeously,
    They are finer, I declare,
    Than the clouds of anywhere.

    A swirl of blue and red and green,
    A stream of blinding gold, a sheen
    From silver hill and pearly ridge
    Comes each evening on the bridge.

    So when you walk in a field, look down,
    Lest you tramp on a daisy's crown,
    But in a city look always high
    And watch the beautiful clouds go by.

James Stephens

Odell

    My mind is sad and weary thinking how
        The griffins of the Gael went over the sea
    From noble Eiré, and are fighting now
        In France and Flanders and in Germany.

    If they, 'mid whom I sported without dread,
        Were home I would not mind what foe might do,
    Or fear tax-man Odell would seize my bed
        To pay the hearth-rate that is overdue.

    I pray to Him who, in the haughty hour
        Of Babel, threw confusion on each tongue,
    That I may see our princes back in power,
        And see Odell, the tax-collector, hung.

James Stephens

One And One

Do you hate me, you!
Sitting quietly there,
With the burnished hair
That frames the two
Deep eyes of your face
In a smooth embrace.

And you say naught,
And I never speak;
But you rest your cheek
On your hand, a thought
Showing plain as the brow
Goes wrinkling now.

Of what do you think,
Sitting opposite me,
As you stir the tea
That you do not drink,
And frown at nought
With those brows of thought.

James Stephens

Owen O'Néill

    If poesy have truth at all,
        If some great lion of the Gael
    Shall rule the lovely land of Fál;
        O yellow mast and roaring sail!
    Carry the leadership for me,
    Writ in this letter, o'er the sea
        To great O'Néill.

James Stephens

Peggy Mitchell

    As lily grows up easily,
    In modest, gentle dignity
    To sweet perfection,
    So grew she,
    As easily.

    Or as the rose that takes no care
    Will open out on sunny air
    Bloom after bloom, fair after fair,
    Sweet after sweet;
    Just so did she,
    As carelessly.

    She is our torment without end,
    She is our enemy and friend,
    Our joy, our woe;
    And she will send
    Madness or glee
    To you and me,
    And endlessly.

James Stephens

Portobello Bridge (The Rocky Road To Dublin)

    Silver stars shine peacefully,
    The Canal is silver, the
    Poplars bear with modest grace
    Gossamers of silver lace,
    And the turf bank wears with glee
    Black and silver filigree.

James Stephens

Righteous Anger

    The lanky hank of a she in the inn over there
    Nearly killed me for asking the loan of a glass of beer:
    May the devil grip the whey-faced slut by the hair,
    And beat bad manners out of her skin for a year.

    That parboiled imp, with the hardest jaw you will see
    On virtue's path, and a voice that would rasp the dead,
    Came roaring and raging the minute she looked at me,
    And threw me out of the house on the back of my head!

    If I asked her master he'd give me a cask a day;
    But she, with the beer at hand, not a gill would arrange!
    May she marry a ghost and bear him a kitten, and may
    The High King of Glory permit her to get the mange.

James Stephens

Sean O'Cosgair

    Pity it was that you should ever stand
        In ship or boat,
        Or that you went afloat
    Inside that ship!

    The lusty steps you took!
        The ways and journeys you knew how to wend
    From London back to Beltra,
        And this end!

    You who could swim so well!
    What time you sported in the lifting tides
    The girls swam out to you, and held your sides
    When they were weary, for they knew they were
    Safe, because you were there.

    Your little-mother thought that this was true
        (And so she made no stir
            Till you were found),
    Although an hundred might be drownéd, you
        Would come back safe to her,
            And not be drowned!

James Stephens

Skim-Milk

    A small part only of my grief I write;
        And if I do not give you all the tale
    It is because my gloom gets some respite
        By just a small bewailing: I bewail
    That I with sly and stupid folk must bide
    Who steal my food and ruin my inside.

    Once I had books, each book beyond compare,
        But now no book at all is left to me,
    And I am spied and peeped on everywhere,
        And my old head, stuffed with latinity,
    And with the poet's load of grave and gay
    Will not get me skim-milk for half a day.

    Wild horse or quiet, not a horse have I,
        But to the forest every day I go
    Bending beneath a load of wood, that high!
        Which raises on my back a sorry row
    Of raw, red blisters; so I cry, ...

James Stephens

Stephen's Green (The Rocky Road To Dublin)

    The wind stood up and gave a shout;
        He whistled on his fingers, and
    Kicked the withered leaves about
        And thumped the branches with his hand,
    And said he'd kill, and kill, and kill,
    And so he will, and so he will.

James Stephens

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