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Emigration
Now as the lees of stray stars
Ebb from those salt grey sands,
Shy beauties shawled on sidecars,
Gallop from stony townlands—
Passing those lonely thresholds,
Lit by a wave of hands:
Leaving the quiet to murmur
The rumours of rich lands.
For them the sails are well spread
Towards far wastes of stone,
Where joy is choked by small bread
And worn is each fair bone
Once curved to a neat delight,
On roads where the dance is known;
But the light steps are muffled,
Now the wild limbs have flown.