Nigh the poppy-droop of Day.

O and naked of her, all dust,

The majestic Mother and Nurse,

Ringing cries to the God, the Just,

Curled the land with the blight of her curse:

Recollected of this glad isle

Still quaking. But now more fair,

And momently fraying the while

The veil of the shadows there,

Soft Enna that prostrate grief