  The gray winds call o’er Carrowmore, Call in the white of the dawn, And the grasses sigh o’er Carrowmore When the purple night draws on. The cromlechs stand on Carrowmore As they ’ve stood since who can say; And the thin wraiths flit o’er Carrowmore Between the dusk and the day. There ’s never a hush on Carrowmore Come autumn or come spring, For, oh, the tongues of Carrowmore, They are fain of whispering! And over and over Carrowmore ’T will be ever thus, meseems,— Like the winnow of wings o’er Carrowmore The surge of the tide of dreams! |
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