Irish Poetry, a Couple Days Late

Towards the end of his first novel, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce includes a poem by his protagonist/alter-ego Stephen Dedalus. At this point, young Stephen is preparing to leave Ireland behind, symbolically rejecting any identity his homeland could provide him. Though not particularly known for his poetry, I have to say that Joyce really could have done more in that genre had he wished to.

An untitled villanelle

Are you not weary of ardent ways,
Lure of the fallen seraphim?
Tell no more of enchanted days.

Your eyes have set man's heart ablaze
And you have had your will of him.
Are you not weary of ardent ways?

Above the flame the smoke of praise
Goes up from ocean rim to rim.
Tell no more of enchanted days.

Our broken cries and mournful lays
Rise in one eucharistic hymn.
Are you not weary of ardent ways?

While sacrificing hands upraise
The chalice flowing to the brim,
Tell no more of enchanted days.

And still you hold our longing gaze
With languorous look and lavish limb!
Are you not weary of ardent ways?
Tell no more of enchanted days.

1914