| He stood among a crowd at Drumahair; |
| His heart hung all upon a silken dress, |
| And he had known at
last some tenderness, |
| Before earth took him to her stony care; |
| But when a man poured fish into a pile, |
| It seemed they raised their little silver heads, |
| And sang what gold morning or evening sheds |
| Upon a
woven world-forgotten isle |
| Where people love beside the ravelled seas; |
| That Time can never mar a
lovers vows |
| Under that woven changeless roof of boughs: |
| The singing shook him out of his new ease. |
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| He wandered by the sands of Lissadell; |
| His mind ran all on money cares and fears, |
| And he had known
at last some prudent years |
| Before they heaped his grave under the hill; |
| But while he passed before
a plashy place, |
| A lug-worm with its grey and muddy mouth |
| Sang that somewhere to north or west or
south |
| There dwelt a gay, exulting, gentle race |
| Under the golden or the silver skies; |
| That if a dancer
stayed his hungry foot |
| It seemed the sun and moon were in the fruit: |
| And at that singing he was no
more wise. |
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| He mused beside the well of Scanavin, |
| He mused upon his mockers: without fail |
| His sudden
vengeance were a country tale, |
| When earthy night had drunk his body in; |
| But one small knot-grass
growing by the pool |
| Sang whereunnecessary cruel voice |
| Old silence bids its chosen race rejoice, |
| Whatever ravelled waters rise and fall |
| Or stormy silver fret the gold of day, |
| And midnight there enfold
them like a fleece |
| And lover there by lover be at peace. |
| The tale drove his fine angry mood away. |
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| He
slept under the hill of Lugnagall; |
| And might have known at last unhaunted sleep |
| Under that cold and
vapour-turbaned steep, |
| Now that the earth had taken man and all: |
| Did not the worms that spired about
his bones |
| Proclaim with that unwearied, reedy cry |
| That God has laid His fingers on the sky, |
| That from
those fingers glittering summer runs |
| Upon the dancer by the dreamless wave. |
| Why should those lovers
that no lovers miss |
| Dream, until God burn Nature with a kiss? |
| The man has found no comfort in the
grave. |