Ireland's Veils

THE rustle of Atlantic gales
The reach of Ireland fills,
A floating film of silver trails
O’er Ireland’s vales and hills. Her winds and waters never cease
To hold melodious tryst, —
She glimmers green beneath her fleece
Of mist.
The memory of the Past assails —
Old centuries unclose —
The flesh grows weak, the spirit fails
For woe of Ireland’s woes,
Her dusky flame of battle days,
Her fevered famine years, —
She glimmers rose beneath a haze
Of tears.
With magic light the faery rings
Illumine Ireland’s sods,
Across the mist of sorrow springs
The rainbow of the gods, —
The print is left on hills and dales
Of steps that are divine,
And Ireland glimmers ’neath her veils,
A shrine.