There is never a sound save the night bird’s cry,
And the languid water lapsing by—
Lapsing—lapsing—lapsing—lapsing—
Under the arch of a leaden sky.
’T is the winding Garavogue’s spectral crew,
Bound for the port of dreams-come-true—
Rowing—rowing—rowing—rowing—
With a swinging stroke that is firm and true.
Do they ever reach their bourn? may be;
Yet who can say?—not we!—not we!—