Death, the immemorial lord of mortals,
He is abbot in the aisles of Sligo
Till the spheres proclaim the resurrection!
[p 26]
]CARROWMORE
The gray winds call o’er Carrowmore,
Call in the white of the dawn,
And the grasses sigh o’er Carrowmore
When the purple night draws on.
The cromlechs stand on Carrowmore
As they ’ve stood since who can say;