Celtic

They are not sinister ghosts With their pale hair, Their pale lips smiling.

They are paler than rain, The ghosts of the twilight, That charm the traveller With distant songs From bloodless lips.

Their feet murmur in the grass And the winds blow Through their hollow bones.

They are not sinister ghosts, Oh no!

In the islands you may see many travellers Who, long ago hearing them sing, Are now old stones.