Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=509040" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Ossian’s Grave</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">PREHISTORIC MONUMENT NEAR CUSHENDALL<br>IN ANTRIM<br>Steep up in Lubitavish townland stands<br>A ring of great stones like fangs, the shafts of the stones<br>Grown up with thousands of years of gradual turf,<br>The fangs of the stones still biting skyward; and hard<br>Against the stone ring, the oblong enclosure<br>Of an old grave guarded with erect slabs; gray rocks<br>Backed by broken thorn-trees, over the gorge of Glenaan;<br>It is called Ossian's Grave. Ossian rests high then,<br>Haughtily alone.<br>If there were any fame or burial or monument<br>For me to envy,<br>Warrior and poet they should be yours and yours.<br>For this is the pure fame, not caged in a poem,<br>Fabulous, a glory untroubled with works, a name in the north<br>Like a mountain in the mist, like Aura<br>Heavy with heather and the dark gray rocks, or Trostan<br>Dark purple in the cloud: happier than what the wings<br>And imperfections of work hover like vultures<br>Above the carcass.<br>I also make a remembered name;<br>And I shall return home to the granite stones<br>On my cliff over the greatest ocean<br>To be blind ashes under the butts of the stones:<br>As you here under the fanged limestone columns<br>Are said to lie, over the narrow north straits<br>Toward Scotland, and the quick-tempered Moyle. But written<br>reminders<br>Will blot for too long a year the bare sunlight<br>Above my rock lair, heavy black birds<br>Over the field and the blood of the lost battle.<br>Oh but we lived splendidly<br>In the brief light of day<br>Who now twist in our graves.<br>You in the guard of the fanged<br>Erect stones; and the man-slayer<br>Shane O'Neill dreams yonder at Cushendun<br>Crushed under his cairn;<br>And Hugh McQuillan under his cairn<br>By his lost field in the bog on Aura;<br>And I a foreigner, one who has come to the country of the dead<br>Before I was called,<br>To eat the bitter dust of my ancestors;<br>And thousands on tens of thousands in the thronged earth<br>Under the rotting freestone tablets<br>At the bases of broken round towers;<br>And the great Connaught queen on her mountain-summit<br>The high cloud hoods, it creeps through the eyes of the cairn,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We dead have our peculiar pleasures, of not<br>Doing, of not feeling, of not being.<br>Enough has been felt, enough done, Oh and surely<br>Enough of humanity has been. We lie under stones<br>Or drift through the endless northern twilights<br>And draw over our pale survivors the net of our dream.<br>All their lives are less<br>Substantial than one of our deaths, and they cut turf<br>Or stoop in the steep<br>Short furrows, or drive the red carts, like weeds waving<br>Under the glass of water in a locked bay,<br>Which neither the wind nor the wave nor their own will<br>Moves; when they seem to awake<br>It is only to madden in their dog-days for memories of dreams<br>That lost all meaning many centuries ago.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh but we lived splendidly<br>In the brief light of day,<br>You with hounds on the mountain<br>And princes in palaces,<br>I on the western cliff<br>In the rages of the sun:<br>Now you lie grandly under your stones<br>But I in a peasant's hut<br>Eat bread bitter with the dust of dead men;<br>The water I draw at the spring has been shed for tears<br>Ten thousand times,<br>Or wander through the endless northern twilights<br>From the rath to the cairn, through fields<br>Where every field-stone's been handled<br>Ten thousand times,<br>In a uterine country, soft<br>And wet and worn out, like an old womb<br>That I have returned to, being dead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh but we lived splendidly<br>Who now twist in our graves.<br>The mountains are alive;<br>Tievebuilleagh lives, Trostan lives,<br>Lurigethan lives;<br>And Aura, the black-faced sheep in the belled heather;<br>And the swan-haunted loughs; but also a few of us dead<br>A life as inhuman and cold as those.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robinson+Jeffers">Robinson Jeffers</a><div class=q>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=509040" data-title="Ossian’s Grave de Robinson Jeffers" data-description="PREHISTORIC MONUMENT NEAR CUSHENDALL
IN ANTRIM
Steep up in Lubitavish townland stands
A ring of great stones like fangs, the shafts of the stones
Grown up with thousands of years of gradual turf,
The fangs of the stones still biting skyward; and h..."></div>
</div>
</div>