OF MOIRA UP THE GLEN
It’s little that I’d care for the glories of Ireland,
Waiting for the shadows to gather in the glen,
Come the time of darkness, sitting by the hearth-light,
Whispering with bated breath for fear the little men
Should catch us and spell us to serve them for a year’s time,
Toiling and moiling within a faëry snare.
I’m thinkin’ ’twould be fearsome in the gray misty strangeness.—
’Tis hiding we’ll be in the clear free air!
The sunlight above us, and willow hedge for shelter,