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；
Desolate winds that beat the doors of Heaven， and beat
The doors of Hell and blow there many a whimpering ghost；
O heart the winds have shaken， the unappeasable host
Is comelier than candles at Mother Mary‘s feet.