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The Grief
It is my fill of sorrow among the black glens,
That stript of light I grope through days gone blind;
Ah, Muiris, you are the grief that wandered my voice
And left me with this broken mind.
You walked the blue mountains in an air of stars,
While the cuckoos barked before you to dawn-rise;
But, Muiris O’Ruane, I have taken my death
In the love you gave me then with dark lies.
In your step I saw no darkness and so I left
The sun by one green gable of a pine wood,
And broke sour nuts of wisdom on a sweet tooth
With you who quenched my girlhood.
This time, with the falling of sap, they cut the whitethorn;
And now, Muiris, my own sister cuts down my life—
O she, that dark looker by this window of tears,