Ireland

I called you by sweet names by wood and linn, You answered not because my voice was new, And you were listening for the hounds of Finn And the long hosts of Lugh. And so, I came unto a windy height And cried my sorrow, but you heard no wind, For you were listening to small ships in flight, And the wail on hills behind. And then I left you, wandering the war Armed with will, from distant goal to goal, To find you at the last free as of yore, Or die to save your soul. And then you called to us from far and near To bring your crown from out the deeps of time, It is my grief your voice I couldn't hear In such a distant clime.