By John Francis Waller
Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning;
Close by the window young Eileen is spinning;
Bent o’er the fire, her blind grandmother, sitting,
Is groaning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting,—
“Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping.”
“’Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping.”
“Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing.”
“’Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying.”
Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,