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Poem	Stop, stop and listen for the bough top Is whistling and the sun is brighter Than God's own shadow in the cup now! Forget the hour-bell. Mournful matins Will sound, Patric, as well at nightfall. Faintly through mist of broken water Fionn heard my melody in Norway. He found the forest track, he brought back This beak to gild the branch and tell, there, Why men must welcome in the daylight. He loved the breeze that warns the black grouse, The shouts of gillies in the morning When packs are counted and the swans cloud Loch Erne, but more than all those voices My throat rejoicing from the hawthorn. In little cells behind a cashel, Patric, no handbell gives a glad sound. But knowledge is found among the branches. Listen! That song that shakes my feathers Will thong the leather of your satchels.
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