Classic Poem

It is not on her gown
She fears to tread;
But on her hair
That tumbles down
And strays
About her ways.

And she lives nigh this place!
The dead would rise
Only to see her face;
The dead would rise
To hear her sing!

We would leave behind
Both wife and child,
And house and home;
And wander blind,
And wander thus,
And ever roam,
If she would come to us
In Erris.

Softly she said to me
— Be patient till the night comes,
And I will go with thee.