dublinka

Joyce probably wrote more poetically than many poets, but I don't particularly like the few poems he left. This one from 1932 is an exception. It's well worth memorising but for some reason a little tricky after a while to recall the third verse. The latin title means: lo! a boy.

Ecce Puer

Of the dark past
A child is born;
With joy and grief
My heart is torn.

Calm in his cradle
The living lies.
May love and mercy
Unclose his eyes!

Young life is breathed
On the glass;
The world that was not
Comes to pass.

A child is sleeping:
An old man gone.
O, father forsaken,
Forgive your son!