Classic Poem

It was not any songster of the forest
That brought to me, yon night, unholy fears,
Thrush of the thicket nor the questioning owlet,
Though these knew all my deeds in those wild years;
It was the grey lag goose that comes to Barra,
That found me desolate and dry of tears.

I was alone within my winter dwelling,
My children gone, my peat-fire dead and grey,
Old and unable — I who once was tempest!
Shivering to hear the rattle of the spray,
When high above my chimney came the wild geese,
And brought my ghosts about me where I lay.

Ah! well I knew they came from gran'ries opened,
Where old mad joys and folly's crops are stored,
Grain o' the wild-oat, ready for the grind-stone,
To make the bitter bread of age abhorred.
My grief! they found me unprepared for pardon,
With all my youth of tumult undeplored!

I had forgot those ancient joys and sinnings,
And now was far too old for penitence.
From out the north, beyond the seven mountains,
Those grey birds of the evening had brought hence
My memories, but no remorse, through darkness,
The weeping night, lost fields of innocence.