On the grey rock of Cashel the mind's eye

    Has called up the cold spirits that are born

    When the old moon is vanished from the sky

    And the new still hides her horn.

    Under blank eyes and fingers never still

    The particular is pounded till it is man.

    When had I my own will？

    O not since life began.

    Constrained， arraigned， baffled， bent and unbent

    By these wire-jointed jaws and limbs of wood，

    Themselves obedient，

    Knowing not evil and good；

    Obedient to some hidden magical breath.

    They do not even feel， so abstract are they，

    So dead beyond our death，

    Triumph that we obey.

    II

    On the grey rock of Cashel I suddenly saw

    A Sphinx with woman breast and lion paw，

    A Buddha， hand at rest，

    Hand lifted up that blest；

    And right between these two a girl at play

    That， it may be， had danced her life away，

    For now being dead it seemed

    That she of dancing dreamed.

    Although I saw it all in the mind's eye

    There can be nothing solider till I die；

    I saw by the moon's light

    Now at its fifteenth night.

    One lashed her tail； her eyes lit by the moon

    Gazed upon all things known， all things unknown，

    In triumph of intellect

    With motionless head erect.

    That other's moonlit eyeballs never moved，

    Being fixed on all things loved， all things unloved，

    Yet little peace he had，

    For those that love are sad.

    O little did they care who danced between，

    And little she by whom her dance was seen

    So she had outdanced thought.

    Body perfection brought，

    For what but eye and ear silence the mind

    With the minute particulars of mankind？

    Mind moved yet seemed to stop

    As 'twere a spinning-top.

    In contemplation had those three so wrought

    Upon a moment， and so stretched it out

    That they， time overthrown，

    Were dead yet flesh and bone.

    III

    I knew that I had seen， had seen at last

    That girl my unremembering nights hold fast

    Or else my dreams that fly

    If I should rub an eye，

    And yet in flying fling into my meat

    A crazy juice that makes the pulses beat

    As though I had been undone

    By Homer's Paragon

    Who never gave the burning town a thought；

    To such a pitch of folly I am brought，

    Being caught between the pull

    Of the dark moon and the full，

    The commonness of thought and images

    That have the frenzy of our western seas.

    Thereon I made my moan，

    And after kissed a stone，

    And after that arranged it in a song

    Seeing that I， ignorant for so long，

    Had been rewarded thus

    In Cormac's ruined house.