  Fair Maeve, that was queen of Beauty, Whither, whither has she gone? Ask the cairn that over Sligo Lifts its stones to greet the dawn! Deirdre, that was queen of Sorrow, Whither, whither has she fled? Ask the woods of Finglas Water That once knew her lissome tread! Queens!—they are no more than mortal; Even they must pale and pass Like the prismy dews of dawning On the heather and the grass! |
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