Clouds and hail of death blow over the Earl Hugh’s men that never have died.
“Nine full hundred, nine and ninety, (O’Neil the thousandth when he comes back!)
Lie a-row, asleep in armor, by horses magical white or black:
“Mighty horses satin-shouldered, with sheen of the golden stirrups grand;
Mighty troopers ripe for battle, the bridle in every ready hand.
“‘Is the time come?’ (Long the sorrow, little isle, my love, for your sake, your sake.)
‘Is the time come? Is the time come?’ Ah, hush, no more: or my heart will break.”
Pretty Kathie, closer pressing, into that face in silence peers:
There they fall, the sunset showers, the far-off, idle, eternal tears.