ALEEL
She sleeps high up on wintry Knock-na-rea
In an old cairn of stones; while her poor women
Must lie and jog in the wave if they would sleep—
Being water born—yet if she cry their names
They run up on the land and dance in the moon
Till they are giddy and would love as men do,
And be as patient and as pitiful.
But there is nothing that will stop in their heads
They've such poor memories, though they weep for it.
Oh, yes, they weep; that's when the moon is full.
CATHLEEN
Is it because they have short memories
They live so long?
ALEEL
What's memory but the ash
That chokes our fires that have begun to sink?
And they've a dizzy, everlasting fire.
OONA
There is your own house, lady.
CATHLEEN
Why, that's true,
And we'd have passed it without noticing.