IT’S a lonely road through bogland to the lake at Carrowmore,
And a sleeper there lies dreaming where the water laps the shore;
Though the moth-wings of the twilight in their purples are unfurled,
Yet his sleep is filled with music by the masters of the world.
There’s a hand is white as silver that is fondling with his hair:
There are glimmering feet of sunshine that are dancing by him there:
And half-open lips of faery that were dyed a faery red
In their revels where the Hazel Tree its holy clusters shed.
“Come away,” the red lips whisper, “all the world is weary now;
’Tis the twilight of the ages and it’s time to quit the plough.
Oh, the very sunlight’s weary ere it lightens up the dew,
And its gold is changed and faded before it falls to you.
“Though your colleen’s heart be tender, a tenderer heart is near.
What’s the starlight in her glances when the stars are shining clear?
Who would kiss the fading shadow when the flower-face glows above?
’Tis the beauty of all Beauty that is calling for your love.”
Oh, the great gates of the mountain have opened once again,
And the sound of song and dancing falls upon the ears of men,
And the Land of Youth lies gleaming, flushed with rainbow light and mirth,
And the old enchantment lingers in the honey-heart of earth.