The Spell-Stricken Poem by Anna Johnston MacManus

I hung my gift on the hawthorn bush,
Because three sips from the Holy Well
Had hurried the fever out of my veins,
And a pain that no tongue could tell.

And the gift I gave to the good Saint Bride
Was your little kerchief of spotted blue–
Cáilín deas, it had circled your neck,
And was sweet with the warmth of you.

The priest came by as I sat and dreamed
(I dreamed at night and I dreamed at noon),
He laid his kindly hand on my brow–
'Are you hearing a fairy tune?

'Do you hear them sing as you sit and smile?'
Then he led my steps to the blessed place,
I drank that day from his hollowed palms,
And he prayed, 'God give you grace.'

No fairy piping had troubled me–
It was you, O girl of the yellow hair!
It was you, bright blossom of loveliness!
Who set for my soul a snare.

Your smile had more than the strength of ten
To draw me after–your frown was worse,
For then I turned to the cup of woe,
And drained to the dregs its curse.

Mary O'Hara, my soul is safe!
I walk with men as a man should walk,
No longer my mother makes her moan
For my idle hours and my foolish talk.

I see you pass in your homespun dress,
Your white throat bare, and your eyelids meek.
But your wonder of beauty is all in vain,
Dark eyes, soft lips, and young round cheek.

Is it in vain? Kind saints be near!
I vow that the tortures of love are fled;
Yet something stirs at yon light foot-fall,
Till I close my ears for dread.

Mary O'Hara, pass on, pass on,
The spell is broken–the captive free,
Pass on, ere I pillow your yellow head
On my heart where it used to be.