Out-Worn heart, in a time out-worn,
come clear of the nets of wrong and right;
laugh, heart, again in the grey twilight,
sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.
Your mother Eire is aways young,
dew ever shining and twilight grey;
Though hope fall from you and love decay,
burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.
Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill:
For there the mystical brotherhood
Of sun and moon and hollow and wood
And river and stream work out their will;
And God stands winding His lonely horn,
and time and the world are ever in flight;
And love is less kind than the grey twilight,
and hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.