Lettermore

These winter days on Lettermore     The brown west wind it sweeps the bay,     And icy rain beats on the bare     Unhomely fields that perish there:     The stony fields of Lettermore     That drink the white Atlantic spray.     And men who starve on Lettermore,     Cursing the haggard, hungry surf,     Will souse the autumn's bruisd grains     To light dark fires within their brains     And fight with stones on Lettermore     Or sprawl beside the smoky turf.     When spring blows over Lettermore     To bloom the ragged furze with gold,     The lovely south wind's living breath     Is laden with the smell of death:     For fever breeds on Lettermore     To waste the eyes of young and old.     A black van comes to Lettermore;     The horses stumble on the stones,     The drivers curse, - for it is hard     To cross the hills from Oughterard     And cart the sick from Lettermore:     A stinking load of rags and bones.     But you will go to Lettermore     When white sea-trout are on the run,     When purple glows between the rocks     About Lord Dudley's fishing box     Adown the road to Lettermore,     And wide seas tarnish in the sun.     And so you'll think of Lettermore     As a lost island of the blest:     With peasant lovers in a blue     Dim dusk, with heather drench'd in dew,     And the sweet peace of Lettermore     Remote and dreaming in the West.