To an Irish Poet

Thy quiet wisdom, like the antler-moss,
Forms a green triad in my memory.
Imbas forosna,–knowledge that illumes
All it adventures; things half-said, and so
The dearer; poems that lead The spirit forth
From the bonds of understanding. Three rich thoughts
Close to my fingers clambering up the rocks
Of the new mountain-life that wakes the joy
Of my most ancient spirit,–antlered moss
Beneath grave cedars, taller than the masts
Of long-forgotten argosies, the beams
That sway against earth-tremors down the depth
Of grim pagodas built in every region
Of long-brooding Japan. Wisdom and sorrow
Moving to their slow fulness, in their train
Bring noble compensation, little things
That glow with infinite wistfulness, that are
Rare tidings to the soul.

E. E. SPEIGHT