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 wind that cry over the wandering sea; Desolate wind that hover in the flaming West;
Desolate wind that beats the doors of Heaven, and beat The doors of Hell and blow there many a whimpering ghost; O heart that winds have shaken, the unappeasable host Is comelier than candles at Mother Mary's feet.