Clinton Scollard


  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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