| Padraic Colum (1881–1972). Anthology of Irish Verse. 1922. | | | | 54. The Counsels of O’Riordan, the Rann Maker | | | | By T. D. O'Bolger | | | | | | THE choirs of Heaven are tokened in a harp-string, | | | A pigeon’s egg is as crafty as the stars. | | | My heart is shaken by the crying of the lap-wing, | | | And yet the world is full of foolish wars. | | | | | There’s gold on the whin-bush every summer morning. | 5 | | There’s struggling discourse in the grunting of a pig: | | | Yet churls will be scheming, and churls will be scorning, | | | And half the dim world is ruled by thimble-rig. | | | | | The luck of God is in two strangers meeting, | | | But the gates of Hell are in the city street | 10 | | For him whose soul is not in his own keeping | | | And love a silver string upon his feet. | | | | | My heart is the seed of time, my veins are star-dust, | | | My spirit is the axle of God’s dream. | | | Why should my august soul be worn or care-tost?… | 15 | | Lo, God is but a lamp, and I his gleam. | | | | | There’s little to be known, and that not kindly, | | | But an ant will burrow through a five-inch wall; | | | There’s nothing rises up or falls down blindly: | | | That’s a poor share of wisdom, but it’s all. | 20 | | | |
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