Chapter II

Well can I recall that eve at Sligo,
And the vacant arches of the abbey
Framing the ethereal rose of sunset!
Round about me silence and gray shadow
Peopled with the wraiths of time departed,—
Monks with back-thrown cowls who pace the cloisters
Now deep-mounded, crumbled, clad with ivy.
No more from the tower their chimes of silver
Will the bells fling o’er the town and river,
O’er the Garavogue soft-gliding seaward!
Nevermore—save in deep dreams at midnight.
Death, the immemorial lord of mortals,
He is abbot in the aisles of Sligo
Till the spheres proclaim the resurrection!

CARROWMORE

The gray winds call o’er Carrowmore,
Call in the white of the dawn,
And the grasses sigh o’er Carrowmore
When the purple night draws on.

The cromlechs stand on Carrowmore
As they ’ve stood since who can say;
And the thin wraiths flit o’er Carrowmore
Between the dusk and the day.

There ’s never a hush on Carrowmore
Come autumn or come spring,
For, oh, the tongues of Carrowmore,
They are fain of whispering!

And over and over Carrowmore
’T will be ever thus, meseems,—
Like the winnow of wings o’er Carrowmore
The surge of the tide of dreams!

ON CARAGH LAKE