Free Opened Ground by Seamus Heaney Page B

hardships and sorrows, saying:
        
                             The bushy leafy oak tree
                             is highest in the wood,
                             the forking shoots of hazel
                             hide sweet hazel-nuts.

                             The alder is my darling,
                             all thornless in the gap,
                             some milk of human kindness
                             coursing in its sap.
                             The blackthorn is a jaggy creel
                             stippled with dark sloes;
                             green watercress in thatch on wells
                             where the drinking blackbird goes.
                             Sweetest of the leafy stalks,
                             the vetches strew the pathway;
                             the oyster-grass is my delight,
                             and the wild strawberry.
                             Low-set clumps of apple trees
                             drum down fruit when shaken;
                             scarlet berries clot like blood
                             on mountain rowan.
                             Briars curl in sideways,
                             arch a stickle back,
                             draw blood and curl up innocent
                             to sneak the next attack.
                             The yew tree in each churchyard
                             wraps night in its dark hood.
                             Ivy is a shadowy
                             genius of the wood.
                             Holly rears its windbreak,
                             a door in winter’s face;
                             life-blood on a spear-shaft
                             darkens the grain of ash.
                             Birch tree, smooth and blessed,
                             delicious to the breeze,
                             high twigs plait and crown it
                             the queen of trees.
                             The aspen pales
                             and whispers, hesitates:
                             a thousand frightened scuts
                             race in its leaves.
                             But what disturbs me most
                             in the leafy wood
                             is the to and fro and to and fro
                             of an oak rod.
    *
                             A starry frost will come
                             dropping on the pools
                             and I’ll be astray
                             on unsheltered heights:
                             herons calling
                             in cold Glenelly,
                             flocks of birds quickly
                             coming and going.
                             I prefer the elusive
                             rhapsody of