The Land Of Hearts Desire | Page 2

grandfather wrote it, And killed a heifer for the binding of it-- But
supper's spread, and we can talk and eat. It was little good he got out of
the book, Because it filled his house with rambling fiddlers, And
rambling ballad-makers and the like. The griddle-bread is there in front
of you. Colleen, what is the wonder in that book, That you must leave
the bread to cool? Had I Or had my father read or written books There
was no stocking stuffed with yellow guineas To come when I am dead
to Shawn and you.
FATHER HART. You should not fill your head with foolish dreams.
What are you reading?
MARY. How a Princess Edane, A daughter of a King of Ireland, heard
A voice singing on a May Eve like this, And followed half awake and
half asleep, Until she came into the Land of Faery, Where nobody gets
old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise,

Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue. And she is still there,
busied with a dance Deep in the dewy shadow of a wood, Or where
stars walk upon a mountain-top.
MAURTEEN. Persuade the colleen to put down the book; My
grandfather would mutter just such things, And he was no judge of a
dog or a horse, And any idle boy could blarney him; just speak your
mind.
FATHER HART. Put it away, my colleen; God spreads the heavens
above us like great wings And gives a little round of deeds and days,
And then come the wrecked angels and set snares, And bait them with
light hopes and heavy dreams, Until the heart is puffed with pride and
goes Half shuddering and half joyous from God's peace; And it was
some wrecked angel, blind with tears, Who flattered Edane's heart with
merry words. My colleen, I have seen some other girls Restless and ill
at ease, but years went by And they grew like their neighbours and
were glad In minding children, working at the churn, And gossiping of
weddings and of wakes; For life moves out of a red flare of dreams Into
a common light of common hours, Until old age bring the red flare
again.
MAURTEEN. That's true--but she's too young to know it's true.
BRIDGET. She's old enough to know that it is wrong To mope and
idle.
MAURTEEN. I've little blame for her; She's dull when my big son is in
the fields, And that and maybe this good woman's tongue Have driven
her to hide among her dreams Like children from the dark under the
bed-clothes.
BRIDGET. She'd never do a turn if I were silent.
MAURTEEN. And maybe it is natural upon May Eve To dream of the
good people. But tell me, girl, If you've the branch of blessed quicken
wood That women hang upon the post of the door That they may send
good luck into the house? Remember they may steal new-married

brides After the fall of twilight on May Eve, Or what old women mutter
at the fire Is but a pack of lies.
FATHER HART. It may be truth We do not know the limit of those
powers God has permitted to the evil spirits For some mysterious end.
You have done right.
(to MARY);
It's well to keep old innocent customs up.
(MARY BRUIN has taken a bough of quicken wood from a seat and
hung it on a nail in the doorpost. A girl child strangely dressed, perhaps
in faery green, comes out of the wood and takes it away.)
MARY. I had no sooner hung it on the nail Before a child ran up out of
the wind; She has caught it in her hand and fondled it; Her face is pale
as water before dawn.
FATHER HART. Whose child can this be?
MAURTEEN. No one's child at all. She often dreams that some one
has gone by, When there was nothing but a puff of wind.
MARY. They have taken away the blessed quicken wood, They will
not bring good luck into the house; Yet I am glad that I was courteous
to them, For are not they, likewise, children of God?
FATHER HART. Colleen, they are the children of the fiend, And they
have power until the end of Time, When God shall fight with them a
great pitched battle And hack them into pieces.
MARY. He will smile, Father, perhaps, and open His great door.
FATHER HART. Did but the lawless angels see that door They would
fall, slain by everlasting peace; And when such angels knock upon our
doors, Who goes with them must drive through the same storm.
(A thin old arm comes round the door-post and knocks and beckons. It

is clearly seen in