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
o heart the winds have shaken, the unappeasable host
is comelier than candles at Mother Mary's feet.