The wind makes moan thro’ the leafless trees
Of Devenish Isle, like a soul in fear,—
Deep in the heart of its snowy woods,
Fanning a peat-flame, lone and drear.
The ruined hut where that turf-fire glows
Hath never a roof of thatch or stone,
But bow and spear on the rude walls hang,
And a bed of skins on the floor is strewn,
Where, close to the embers, stern and still,