Never forgetful silence fall on thee, Nor younger voices overtake thee, Nor echoes from thine ancient hills forsake thee, Old music heard by Mona of the sea: And where with moving melodies there break thee, Pastoral Conway, venerable Dee. Like music lives, nor may that music die, Still in the far, fair Gaelic places: The speech, so wistful with its kindly graces, Holy Croagh Patrick knows, and holy Hy: The speech, that wakes the soul in withered faces, And wakes remembrance of great things gone by. Like music by the desolate Land's End, Mournful forgetfulness hath broken: No more words kindred to the winds are spoken, Where upon iron cliffs whole seas expend That strength, whereof the unalterable token Remains wild music, even to the world's end. _Lionel Johnson_ TO MORFYDD A voice on the winds, A voice on the waters, Wanders and cries: _O! what are the winds? And what are the waters? Mine are your eyes._ Western the winds are, And western the waters, Where the light lies: _O! what are the winds? And what are the waters? Mine are your eyes._ Cold, cold, grow the winds, And dark grow the waters, Where the sun dies: _O! what are the winds? And what are the waters? Mine are your eyes._ And down the night winds, And down the night waters The music flies: _O! what are the winds? And what are the waters? Cold be the winds, And wild be the waters, So mine be your eyes._ _Lionel Johnson_ CAN DOOV DEELISH Can doov deelish, beside the sea I stand and stretch my hands to thee Across the world. The riderless horses race to shore With thundering hoofs and shuddering, hoar, Blown manes uncurled. Can doov deelish, I cry to thee Beyond the world, beneath the sea, Thou being dead. Where hast thou hidden from the beat Of crushing hoofs and tearing feet Thy dear black head? God bless the woman, whoever she be, From the tossing waves will recover thee And lashing wind. Who will take thee out of the wind and storm, Dry thy wet face on her bosom warm And lips so kind? I not to know. It is hard to pray, But I shall for this woman from day to day, 'Comfort my dead, The sport of the winds and the play of the sea.' I loved thee too well for this thing to be, O dear black head! _Dora Sigerson_ ANONYMOUS SHULE AROON