Silent are the singers in the purple halls of Emain,
Silent all the harp-strings untouched of any hand,
Wan as twilight roses the radiant, royal women,
Black unto the hearthstone the erstwhile flaming brand.
Inward far from ocean the storm’s white birds are flying,
Darting, like dim wraith flames across the falling night.
Winds like a caoine through the quicken groves are sighing,
On no lip is laughter, in no heart delight.
For thitherwards witch-wafted athwart the sundering spaces,
Lo, a word doom-freighted unto Conchubar has come,