The Harbour

I think if I lay dying in some land Where Ireland is no more than just a name, My soul would travel back to find that strand From whence it came. I'd see the harbour in the evening light, The old men staring at some distant ship, The fishing boats they fasten left and right Beside the slip. The sea-wrack lying on the wind-swept shore, The grey thorn bushes growing in the sand, Our Wexford coast from Arklow to Cahore - My native land. The little houses climbing up the hill Sea daises growing in the sandy grass, The tethered goats that wait large -eyed and still To watch you pass. The women at the well with dripping pails, Their men colloguing by the harbour wall, The coils of rope, the nets, the old brown sails, I'd know them all. And then the Angelus - I'd surely see The swaying bell against a golden sky, So God, WHO KEPT THE LOVE OF HOME IN ME Would let me die.