| I have heard the pigeons of the Seven Woods |
| Make their faint thunder, and the garden bees |
| Hum in the
lime-tree flowers; and put away |
| The unavailing outcries and the old bitterness |
| That empty the heart. I
have forgot awhile |
| Tara uprooted, and new commonness |
| Upon the throne and crying about the streets |
| And hanging its paper flowers from post to post, |
| Because it is alone of all things happy. |
| I am contented,
for I know that Quiet |
| Wanders laughing and eating her wild heart |
| Among pigeons and bees, while that
Great Archer, |
| Who but awaits His hour to shoot, still hangs |
| A cloudy quiver over Parc-na-lee. |
| August
1902 |