Cairns level with the dust—
Names dim with Time's dull rust—
Afar they sleep on many a wind-swept hill,
The beautiful, the strong of heart and will—
On whose pale dreams no sunrise joy shall burst,
No harper's song shall pierce with battle-thrill.
Long from their purpled heights,
Their reign of high delights,
The Queens have wended down Death's mildewed stair,
Leaving a scent of lilies on the air,
To gladden Earth through all her days and nights,
That once she cherished anything so fair.
DEATH OF CUCHULAIN
By Eleanor Rogers Cox
Silent are the singers in the purple halls of Emain,
Silent all the harp-strings untouched of any hand,
Wan as twilight roses the radiant, royal women,
Black unto the hearthstone the erstwhile flaming brand.
Inward far from ocean the storm's white birds are flying,
Darting, like dim wraith flames across the falling night.
Winds like a caoine through the quicken groves are sighing,
On no lip is laughter, in no heart delight.
