BID a strong ghost stand at the h
That my Michael may sleep sound,
Nor cry, nor turn in the bed
Till his morning meal come round;
And may departing twilight keep

I walked among the seven woods of
Shan-walla, where a willow-hordere
Gathers the wild duck from the win
Shady Kyle-dortha; sunnier Kyle-n
Where many hundred squirrels are a

I WOULD that we were, my belove
We tire of the flame of the meteor
And the flame of the blue star of
Has awakened in our hearts, my bel
A weariness comes from those dream

A crazy man that found a cup,
When all but dead of thirst,
Hardly dared to wet his mouth
Imagining, moon-accursed,
That another mouthful

‘I am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,’ cried she.
‘Come out of charity,
Come dance with me in Ireland.’

That lover of a night
Came when he would,
Went in the dawning light
Whether I would or no;
Men come, men go;

WHERE had her sweetness gone?
What fanatics invent
In this blind bitter town,
Fantasy or incident
Not worth thinking of,

THREE old hermits took the air
By a cold and desolate sea,
First was muttering a prayer,
Second rummaged for a flea;
On a windy stone, the third,

‘YOUR eyes that once were never
Are bowed in sotrow under pendulou
Because our love is waning.’
And then She:
‘Although our love is waning, let

O CURLEW, cry no more in the ai
Or only to the water in the West;
Because your crying brings to my m
passion-dimmed eyes and long heavy
That was shaken out over my breast