Four Songs

O western wind, when wilt thou blow
That the small rain down can rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again.

What needs complaints,
When she a place
Has with the race
	Of saints?

In endless mirth
She thinks not on
What 's said or done
	In Earth.

She sees no tears,
Or any tone
Of thy deep groan
	She hears:

Nor does she mind
Or think on 't now
That ever thou
	Wast kind;

But changed above,
She likes not there,
As she did here,
	Thy love.

Forbear therefore,
And lull asleep
Thy woes, and weep
	No more.

Rain on Rahoon falls softly, softly falling,
Where my dark lover lies.
Sad is his voice that calls me, sadly calling,
At grey moonrise.

Love, hear thou
How soft, how sad his voice is ever calling,
Ever unanswered and the dark rain falling,
Then as now.

Dark too our hearts, O love, shall lie and cold
As his sad heart has lain
Under the moongrey nettles, the black mould
And muttering rain.

He travels after a winter sun,
Urging the cattle along a cold red road,
Calling to them, a voice they know,
He drives his beasts above Cabra.

The voice tells them home is warm.
They moo and make brute music with their hoofs.
He drives them with a flowering branch before him,
Smoke pluming their foreheads.

Boor, bond of the herd,
Tonight stretch full by the fire!
I bleed by the black stream
For my torn bough!