IX
TO THAT RARE AND DEEP-RED BURNET-MOTH ONLY TO BE MET WITH IN THE BURREN
Sparkle of red on an iron floor,
In the fiercest teeth of this gale’s wild roar,
What has brought thee, oh speck of fire,
Speaking of love and the heart’s desire,
To a land so dead?
Rocks gaunt and grim as the halls of Death,
Sculptured and hewn by the wind’s rough breath,
Fortress-shaped, fantastic things,
Reared for some turbulent race of Kings,