The Unappeasable Host

THE Danaan children laugh, in cradles of wrought gold

And clap their hands together, and half close their eyes

For they will ride the North when the ger-eagle flies

With heavy whitening wings, and a heart fallen cold:

I kiss my wailing child and press it to my breast

And hear the narrow graves calling my child and me.

Desolate winds that cry over the wandering sea;

Desolate winds that hover in the flaming West;