Sweeney 

I am Sweeney they call the mad, 
I am as tall as any tree, 
I am a tree that has no roots, 
And yet the wild hills nourish me. 
If I should go and live with men 
Ivy would choke me, body and breath,
But here I am like oak and beech, 
And when they die I may see death. 
I do not love the looks of men, 
But I love beeches straight and tall, 
Whose muscles strain their shining skin;
Women I do not love at all; 
But I love water bright and cold 
That does not measure out its words
And talks as I do, all alone 
Without a break. I love to run 
And scale the mountains like a storm,
Waving my arms to scare the birds 
And screaming with them in their flight.
I love to frighten men and herds, 
And so I hide in some dark gully 
Above their homes, and when the sun
Climbs on the ridge of a mountain fully,
Or when the great round harvest moon
Rises, I leap across the light 
And stretch my coat tails to the sky,
And plunge the valley into night, 
And make men bless themselves for fright,
And make the little children cry.



Source: O'Connor, Frank; Three Old Brothers and Other Poems; 1936;
London; Thomas Nelson & Sons Ltd.; p.11