Are there not on these lone hills graves enough?
Is there not space in yonder dark-hued sea?
In yon grey mist-swept shore even for ye?
Behold the dusk brings comfort. On yon height
One silvery hovering gleam of watery light.
Sea, shore, and all these naked uplands wear
That wild wan look, that mute appealing air,
That smile—born of young Hope and old Despair—
Which Eiré’s world-wide lovers find so fair.
Oh, woman-country, weak, yet strangely strong,