All changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born. — W.B. Yeats

The way the moon and grasses bend
Greenest greens to their greening sun
And comb themselves toward the stream
As silent as your silvered dreams, how
Within you burns bright that verdancy
As wild and fecund as anything ever seen 
By your ancestors in County Mayo.

Though now in shade, may your eyes be drawn
As if your very children held the brush
To the rising hush of that lush kingdom
Where your every heartbeat is the drum
That might have bid Jean d’Arc to gallop on
Or Thomas a Becket in soft procession
To his hallowed death. ’Tis time, ’tis time, ’tis time

Of fertile garden and ripe expression
That o’erflows the heath in laws of to and fro:
All that reaches like leaves and dances to grow
From the woven world well-rooted below — 
To strike for us all the match that can renew
The light of lights from morning’s dew
Till the stars of night drip like tallow.

Follow leaf or flower — no holding on
To limb and stem, but giving all surface to the Sun;
The same with rills and streams, no holding back.
Then let your gravity loose its roar
Like falls deafening the rising wind.
Denying lack, shake laxness to the core
Till all beginnings can re-begin.

Sing out! This decade is no quiescent time.
The noon is nigh, it rays direct.
All things in clarity now connect
In the mind of moss: secrets of Connemaran rhyme — 
Sing out the mantric cadences innate in sound,
The same reed by which humans rebound,
And the stone of walls come rumbling down.

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