Running to Paradise

The Hosting of the Sidhe

The host is riding from Knocknarea   
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.   

Стихи:  W.B.Yeats, The Wind Among the Reeds, 1899
Музыка: Хелависа

He mourns for the Change that has Come upon Him and His Beloved and Longs for the End of the World

Do you not hear me calling, white deer with no horns? 
I have been changed to a hound with one red ear; 
I have been in the Path of Stones and the Wood of Thorns, 
For somebody hid hatred and hope and desire and fear 
Under my feet that they follow you night and day. 
A man with a hazel wand came without sound; 
He changed me suddenly; I was looking another way; 
And now my calling is but the calling of a hound; 
And Time and Birth and Change are hurrying by. 
I would that the Boar without bristles had come from the West 
And had rooted the sun and moon and stars out of the sky 
And lay in the darkness, grunting, and turning to his rest. 

Стихи:  W.B.Yeats
Музыка: Хелависа

The Song of Wandering Aengus

I went out to the hazel wood,   
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.   
   
When I had laid it on the floor   
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.   
   
Though I am old with wandering   
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.   

Стихи:  W.B.Yeats, The Wind Among the Reeds, 1899
Музыка: Хелависа

The Unappeasable Host (A Cradle Song)

The Danann children laugh, in cradles of wrought gold,   
And clap their hands together, and half close their eyes,   
For they will ride the North when the ger-eagle flies,   
With heavy whitening wings, and a heart fallen cold:   
I kiss my wailing child and press it to my breast,
And hear the narrow graves calling my child and me.   
Desolate winds that cry over the wandering sea;   
Desolate winds that hover in the flaming West;   
Desolate winds that beat the doors of Heaven, and beat   
The doors of Hell and blow there many a whimpering ghost;
O heart the winds have shaken; the unappeasable host   
Is comelier than candles before Maurya’s feet.   

Стихи:  W.B.Yeats, The Wind Among the Reeds, 1899
Музыка: Хелависа

The Host of the Air

O’Driscoll drove with a song,   
The wild duck and the drake,   
From the tall and the tufted reeds   
Of the drear Hart Lake.   
   
And he saw how the reeds grew dark
At the coming of night tide,   
And dreamed of the long dim hair   
Of Bridget his bride.   
   
He heard while he sang and dreamed   
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,   
And never was piping so gay.   
   
And he saw young men and young girls   
Who danced on a level place   
And Bridget his bride among them,
With a sad and a gay face.   
   
The dancers crowded about him,   
And many a sweet thing said,   
And a young man brought him red wine   
And a young girl white bread.
   
But Bridget drew him by the sleeve,   
Away from the merry bands,   
To old men playing at cards   
With a twinkling of ancient hands.   
   
The bread and the wine had a doom,
For these were the host of the air;   
He sat and played in a dream   
Of her long dim hair.   
   
He played with the merry old men   
And thought not of evil chance,
Until one bore Bridget his bride   
Away from the merry dance.   
   
He bore her away in his arms,   
The handsomest young man there,   
And his neck and his breast and his arms
Were drowned in her long dim hair.   
   
O’Driscoll scattered the cards   
And out of his dream awoke:   
Old men and young men and young girls   
Were gone like a drifting smoke;
   
But he heard high up in the air   
A piper piping away,   
And never was piping so sad,   
And never was piping so gay.   

Стихи:  W.B.Yeats, The Wind Among the Reeds, 1899
Музыка: Хелависа

The Black Tower

Say that the men of the old black tower,
Though they but feed as the goatherd feeds,
Their money spent, their wine gone sour,
Lack nothing that a soldier needs,
That all are oath-bound men:
Those banners come not in.

There in the tomb stand the dead upright,
But winds come up from the shore:
They shake when the winds roar,
Old bones upon the mountain shake.

Those banners come to bribe or threaten,
Or whisper that a man's a fool
Who, when his own right king's forgotten,
Cares what king sets up his rule.
If he died long ago
Why do you dread us so?

There in the tomb drops the faint moonlight,
But wind comes up from the shore:
They shake when the winds roar,
Old bones upon the mountain shake.

The tower's old cook that must climb and clamber
Catching small birds in the dew of the morn
When we hale men lie stretched in slumber
Swears that he hears the king's great horn.
But he's a lying hound:
Stand we on guard oath-bound!

There in the tomb the dark grows blacker,
But wind comes up from the shore:
They shake when the winds roar,
Old bones upon the mountain shake.

Стихи:  W.B.Yeats, 1939
Музыка: Хелависа

September 1913

What need you, being come to sense,   
But fumble in a greasy till   
And add the halfpence to the pence   
And prayer to shivering prayer, until   
You have dried the marrow from the bone;
For men were born to pray and save:   
Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,   
It’s with O’Leary in the grave.   
   
Yet they were of a different kind   
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,   
But little time had they to pray   
For whom the hangman’s rope was spun,   
And what, God help us, could they save:   
Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,
It’s with O’Leary in the grave.   
   
Was it for this the wild geese spread   
The grey wing upon every tide;   
For this that all that blood was shed,   
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,   
All that delirium of the brave;   
Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,   
It’s with O’Leary in the grave.   
   
Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were,   
In all their loneliness and pain   
You’d cry ‘Some woman’s yellow hair   
Has maddened every mother’s son’:   
They weighed so lightly what they gave,
But let them be, they’re dead and gone,   
They’re with O’Leary in the grave. 

Стихи:  W.B.Yeats, Responsibilities and Other Poems, 1916
Музыка: Хелависа

I am of Ireland

"I am of Ireland, 
And the Holy Land of Ireland, 
And time runs on", cried she. 
"Come out of charity, 
Come dance with me in Ireland".
One man, one man alone 
In that outlandish gear, 
One solitary man 
Of all that rambled there 
Had turned his stately head. 
"That is a long way off, 
And time runs on", he said, 
"And the night grows rough".

"I am of Ireland, 
And the Holy Land of Ireland, 
And time runs on", cried she. 
"Come out of charity 
And dance with me in Ireland".

"The fiddlers are all thumbs, 
Or the fiddle-string accursed, 
The drums and the kettledrums 
And the trumpets all are burst, 
And the trombone", cried he, 
"The trumpet and trombone",
And cocked a malicious eye, 
"But time runs on, runs on".

"I am of Ireland, 
And the Holy Land of Ireland, 
And time runs on", cried she. 
"Come out of charity 
And dance with me in Ireland".

Стихи:  W.B.Yeats
Музыка: Хелависа

Under the Moon

I have no happiness in dreaming of Brycelinde,
Nor Avalon the grass-green hollow, nor Joyous Isle,
Where one found Lancelot crazed and hid him for a while;
Nor Uladh, when Naoise had thrown a sail upon the wind;
Nor lands that seem too dim to be burdens on the heart:
Land-under-Wave, where out of the moon's light and the sun's
Seven old sisters wind the threads of the long-lived ones,
Land-of-the-Tower, where Aengus has thrown the gates apart,
And Wood-of-Wonders, where one kills an ox at dawn,
To find it when night falls laid on a golden bier.
Therein are many queens like Branwen and Guinevere;
And Niamh and Laban and Fand, who could change to an otter or fawn,
And the wood-woman, whose lover was changed to a blue-eyed hawk;
And whether I go in my dreams by woodland, or dun, or shore,
Or on the unpeopled waves with kings to pull at the oar,
I hear the harp-string praise them, or hear their mournful talk.
Because of something told under the famished horn
Of the hunter's moon, that hung between the night and the day,
To dream of women whose beauty was folded in dis may,
Even in an old story, is a burden not to be borne.

Стихи:  W.B.Yeats
Музыка: Хелависа

The Withering of the Boughs

I cried when the moon was murmuring to the birds: 
"Let peewit call and curlew cry where they will, 
I long for your merry and tender and pitiful words, 
For the roads are unending, and there is no place to my mind". 
The honey-pale moon lay low on the sleepy hill, 
And I fell asleep upon lonely Echtge of streams. 
No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind; 
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams. 

I know of the leafy paths that the witches take 
Who come with their crowns of pearl and their spindles of wool, 
And their secret smile, out of the depths of the lake; 
I know where a dim moon drifts, where the Danaan kind 
Wind and unwind dancing when the light grows cool 
On the island lawns, their feet where the pale foam gleams. 
No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind; 
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams. 

I know of the sleepy country, where swans fly round 
Coupled with golden chains, and sing as they fly. 
A king and a queen are wandering there, and the sound 
Has made them so happy and hopeless, so deaf and so blind 
With wisdom, they wander till all the years have gone by; 
I know, and the curlew and peewit on Echtge of streams. 
No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind; 
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.

Стихи:  W.B.Yeats, Seven Woods
Музыка: Хелависа

Running to Paradise

As I came over Windy Gap   
They threw a halfpenny into my cap,   
For I am running to Paradise;   
And all that I need do is to wish   
And somebody puts his hand in the dish
To throw me a bit of salted fish:   
And there the king is but as the beggar.   
   
My brother Mourteen is worn out   
With skelping his big brawling lout,   
And I am running to Paradise;
A poor life do what he can,   
And though he keep a dog and a gun,   
A serving maid and a serving man:   
And there the king is but as the beggar.   
   
Poor men have grown to be rich men,
And rich men grown to be poor again,   
And I am running to Paradise;   
And many a darling wit’s grown dull   
That tossed a bare heel when at school,   
Now it has filled an old sock full:
And there the king is but as the beggar.   
   
The wind is old and still at play   
While I must hurry upon my way,   
For I am running to Paradise;   
Yet never have I lit on a friend
To take my fancy like the wind   
That nobody can buy or bind:   
And there the king is but as the beggar.   

Стихи:  W.B.Yeats, Responsibilities and Other Poems, 1916
Музыка: Хелависа