Now you are gone you seem a visitor, Something that haunted for a little time The splendor of the evening, or astir With bees in blooms of lime; Or, at the hour when mothers tell old tales To children, something passing through the gleams Of cottage windows; or, on western gales Riding, a king of dreams; Or, about hawthorns lingering to greet The earliest may among the blazing green, Or, through the heather traveling to meet Spirits we have not seen; A lovely radiance of a passing star Upon a sudden journey through the gloaming, Lighting, low Irish dills, and then afar To its own regions homing. |