Lament of the Stolen Bride

Go, thought of my heart, on the wings of the wind
O'er the green on the meadows wide,
By the deep dark woods, with the sea behind,
Where the stars at anchor ride;
Steal into the heart of my old true love
As he turns from the shining plough,
And tell with the voice of the home-come dove
Of the hunger that's on me now.

Ochone, for the land that is far away,
And Shawn of the stout warm arms;
Oh, better a world where the light is gray
And night is thick with alarms,
Than forever the music's maddening beat
In the moonlit faery land,
Than the ceaseless whir of the tripping feet
And the clasp of the bloodless hand.

E'en yet, when night is on fire with stars,
Or dropping the silver day,
I can hear the fall of the pasture bars
And the lilt of his whistled lay.
Then shaken from me are the dreamers' charms,
My hand from the dancers' slips,
And the mother stands lonely with empty arms,
And the widow with hungering lips.
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