In Tir-na'n-Og,
In Tir-na'n-Og,
No memory hath he of my face, no sorrow for my sorrow,
My flax is spun, my wheel is hushed, and so I wait the morrow.
LADY DAY IN IRELAND
By P. J. Carroll, C.S.C.
Through the long August day, mantled blue with a sky of Our Lady,
They are there at the well from the dawn till the sea birds go home;
And the trees bending down with broad leaves offer spots that are shady,
Where the heart is at rest, sighing prayers till the shadows are come.
The brown beads and the crucifix pass in procession through fingers
That are pale as the snow or are hardened from labor and pain.
In each Ave they whisper the deep Celtic tenderness lingers,
Like a sweet phrase in song that is echoed and echoed again.
Marching down the white road with the sun in the noon of his splendor
Are the children, with joy in the blue of their innocent eyes;
