Bitter and selfish sorrow, poverty, strife and ruth,
Fear of the dreadful morrow,—these took away our youth.
Ængus is bending o’er us—we are too old to see,
Too old to hear before us moon-drenchèd songs of Shee.
Dreamer of dreams and lover, young as are love and dreams,
Show us the Shee that hover over the silver streams,
Give us the song and story, make us to live anew,
Bathed in your youthful glory let us be young like you.