Poem by James Joyce

Tilly

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!

1. Watching the Needleboats at San Sabba
2. Chamber Music. 21. He Who Hath Glory Lost, Nor Hath
3. Chamber Music. 25. Lightly Come or Lightly Go
4. Flood
5. Chamber Music. 14. My Dove, My Beautiful One

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