My father's Irish Settlers A poem by James Merrill L'ville alumini Always throughout his life (The parts of it I knew) Two or three would be racing Up stairs and down hallways, Whining to take us walking, Or caked with dirt, resigning Keen ears to bouts of talk- Until his third, last wife Put down her little foot. That splendid thoroughbred Lineage was penned Safely out of earshot; Fed, of course, and watered, But never let out to run. "Dear God," the new wife simpered, Tossing her little head, "Suppose they got run over- Wouldn't that be the end!" Each time I visited (Once or twice a year) I'd slip out, giving my word Not to get carried away. At the dogs' first sight of me Far off-of anyone- Began a joyous barking, A russet-and rapid-as-flame Leaping, them whimpering lickings Of face and hands through wire. Like fire, like fountains leaping With love and loyalty, Put, were they, in safekeeping By love, or for love's sake! Dear heart, to love's own shame. But loyalty transferred Leaves famously slim pickings, And no one's left to blame. Divorced again, my father (Hair white, face deeply scored) Looked round and heaved a sigh. The setters were nowhere, Fleet muzzle, soulful eye Dead lo! These forty winters! Not so. Tonight in perfect Lamplit stillness begin With updraft from the worksheet, Leaping and tongues, far-shining Hearths of our hinterland; Dour chieftain, maiden pining Away for that lost music, Her harpist's wild red hair Dear clan of Ginger and Finn, As I go through your motions (As they go through me, rather) Love follows, pen in hand.