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- THE DEDICATION TO A BOOK OF STORIES
- SELECTED FROM THE IRISH NOVELISTS
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- THERE was a green branch hung with many a bell
- When her own people ruled this tragic Eire;
- And from its murmuring greenness, calm of Faery,
- A Druid kindness, on all hearers fell.
- It charmed away the merchant from his guile,
- And turned the farmer's memory from his cattle,
- And hushed in sleep the roaring ranks of battle:
- And all grew friendly for a little while.
- Ah, Exiles wandering over lands and seas,
- And planning, plotting always that some morrow
- May set a stone upon ancestral Sorrow!
- I also bear a bell-branch full of ease.
- I tore it from green boughs winds tore and tossed
- Until the sap of summer had grown weary!
- I tore it from the barren boughs of Eire,
- That country where a man can be so crossed;
- Can be so battered, badgered and destroyed
- That he's a loveless man: gay bells bring laughter
- That shakes a mouldering cobweb from the rafter;
- And yet the saddest chimes are best enjoyed.
- Gay bells or sad, they bring you memories
- Of half-forgotten innocent old places:
- We and our bitterness have left no traces
- On Munster grass and Connemara skies.
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