| The Danaan children laugh, in cradles of wrought gold, |
| And clap their hands together, and half close
their eyes, |
| For they will ride the North when the ger-eagle flies, |
| With heavy whitening wings, and a heart
fallen cold: |
| I kiss my wailing child and press it to my breast, |
| And hear the narrow graves calling my
child and me. |
| Desolate winds that cry over the wandering sea; |
| Desolate winds that hover in the flaming
West; |
| Desolate winds that beat the doors of Heaven, and beat |
| The doors of Hell and blow there many
a whimpering ghost; |
| O heart the winds have shaken, the unappeasable host |
| Is comelier than candles at
Mother Mary’s feet. |