I’m surprised by this solitude with you, sir;
your headstone here, Ben Bulben there—
a little less than I’d expected, that,
lower and greener than would have thought—
but this two of us only is so much more
than ever I’d dreamt for.

With no one to think the worse of me,
I can sound out “Lapis Lazuli.”
You kicked my life apart with that, sir,
and I’ve never really wanted to recover.
I’ve had it by heart like a profane prayer
for twenty-five years.

I may not be Irish, but I’ve studied the trade
of cobbling verse. What progress I’ve made
I’ll leave to my God and to you to decide—
though you’ve sometimes annoyed me, with your scribbling bride,
and your love in the old grand style, and dressage
and high riders and lineage.

Too many Irish have cast a cold eye
on life, on death, since your horseman went by.
They’re digging for them on the beaches now,
and some they can’t find. But still, somehow,
even the sillier things you said
haunt in the head

like a distant music from Byzantium.
In the Republic of Ireland, there’s no kingdom to come,
and even Croagh Patrick’s so far from heaven;
but there’s music in the pubs at night, and even
the duller and more violent honour your name.
That’s why I came.

“You were silly like the rest of us,” but, by God, sir,
the greatest set of rag and bone buried here.
So I whisper out “Easter, 1916”
as quickly and quietly as I can
before anyone comes. Sir, I was born
where motley is worn,

and I took a taxi out here to do this.
And I’d better get out of here, I guess,
with you still to myself. There’s a chrome-and-glass-
dull pub up the road which they’ve named, alas,
after you. I’ll call from there and go
back down to Sligo,

with you to myself. I’ve been told those bones
down there aren’t yours; and, since we’re alone,
I’ll tell you privately I wouldn’t doubt it.
But you’ve taught me a trade, so I’d best be about it.
I just wanted to meet you, sir, this once and again,
under Ben Bulben.