These are the arrows that murder sleep At every hour in the night's black deep; Pangs of Love through the long day ache, All for the dead Dinertach's sake. Great love of a hero from Roiny's plain Has pierced me through with immortal pain, Blasted my beauty and left me to blanch A riven bloom on a restless branch. Never was song like Dinertach's speech But holy strains that to Heaven's gate reach; A front of flame without boast or pride, Yet a firm, fond mate for a fair maid's side. A growing girl—I was timid of tongue, And never trysted with gallants young, But since I have won into passionate age, Fierce love-longings my heart engage. With Guare, arch-monarch of Aidne cold, But, fallen away from my haughty folk, In Irluachair's field my heart lies broke. There is chanting in glorious Aidne's meadow, Under St. Colman's Church's shadow; A hero flame sinks into the tomb— Dinertach, alas my love and my doom! Chaste Christ! that now at my life's last breath I should tryst with Sorrow and mate with Death! At every hour of the night's black deep, These are the arrows that murder sleep. Alfred Perceval Graves. |