  At Killybegs above the crags The gray gulls pipe with voices thinned, And all the green trees are like flags That wave and waver in the wind. At Killybegs about the dunes Rustle the crispy grass and whin, And low the long tide croons and croons As it creeps out, as it creeps in. At Killybegs the white sails race When the blue sea is like a floor; Like doubt night falls with haggard face; Sometimes the ships return no more. The brown bee drains the cottage flowers Of honey to their crimson dregs, And love hath many happy hours ’Twixt birth and death at Killybegs! |
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