Drips of dear ineffectual water,
April showers of pallid arsenic evaporating to unsubstantial air,
I once melted the heart of Cuchulain and his warriors
And Tom Moore grew quite sentimental about me in Tara’s halls,
Where my ripply waves of watery sounds
Turned to thin strips of paper on the breeze.
Now I can faint but to transparent moons
And the intensified weariness of stars.
I can whimper the same faded melodies
With their aroma of blurred cinnamon.