Delusion Of Saints

The old pagan burials, uninscribed rock, Secret-keeping mounds, Have shed the feeble delusions that built them, They stand inhumanly Clean and massive; they have lost their priests. But the cross-bearing stones Still foot corruption, and their faces carved With hopes and terrors At length too savagely annulled to be left Even ridiculous. Long-suffering saints, flamelike aspirers, You have won your reward: You sleep now as easily as any dead murderer Or worn-out lecher. To have found your faith a liar is no thorn In the narrow beds, Nor laughter of unfriends nor rumor of the ruinous Churches will reach you. As at Clonmacnoise I saw them all ruined, And at Cong, at Glendalough, At Monasterboice; and at Kilrnacduagh All ruined, all roofless But the great cyclopean-stoned spire That leans toward its fall. A place perfectly abandoned of life, Except that we heard One old horse neighing across the stone hedges In the flooded fields.