Interior

THE little moths are creeping
Across the cottage pane;
On the floor the chickens gather,
And they make talk and complain.

And she sits by the fire
Who has reared so many men;
Her voice is low like the chickens'
With the things she says again:

'The sons that come back do be restless,
They search for the thing to say;
Then they take thought like the swallows,
And the morrow brings them away.

In the old, old days upon Innish,
The fields were lucky and bright,
And if you lay down you'd be covered
By the grass of one soft night.

And doves flew with every burial
That went to Innishore
Two white doves with the coffened,
But the doves fly no more.'

She speaks and the chickens gather,
And they make talk and complain,
While the little moths are creeping
Across the cottage pane.

by Padraic Colum

Comments (10)

A great poem displaying a wide sweep of imagery. Thanks for sharing it here.
Imagery so powerful haunts the reader to a life certain class. People as if peeping through the words. Thanks for posting.
A beautiful verse with nice flow. Each stanza is very interesting. Congrats.
Two white doves! ! Thanks for sharing this poem with us.
Great write. Nice expression. Thanks and congratulations to his soul.
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