The freckled1 man who goes
To a grey place on a hill
In grey Connemara clothes
At dawn to cast his flies，
Its long since I began
To call up to the eyes
This wise and simple man.
All day Id looked in the face
What I had hoped twould be
To write for my own race
And the reality；
The living men that I hate，
The dead man that I loved，
The craven man in his seat，
The insolent2 unreproved，
And no knave3 brought to book
Who has won a drunken cheer，
The witty4 man and his joke
Aimed at the commonest ear，
The clever man who cries
The catch-cries of the clown，
The beating down of the wise
And great Art beaten down.
Maybe a twelvemonth since
Suddenly I began，
In scorn of this audience，
Imagining a man，
And his sun-freckled face，
And grey Connemara cloth，
Climbing up to a place
Where stone is dark under froth，
And the down-turn of his wrist
When the flies drop in the stream；
A man who does not exist，
A man who is but a dream；
And cried， Before I am old
I shall have written him one
Poem maybe as cold
And passionate5 as the dawn.
