On Inishmaan Isles Of Aran

In the twilight of the year,

Here, about these twilight ways,

When the grey moth night drew near,

Fluttering on a faint flying,

I would linger out the day's Delicate and moth-grey dying.

Grey, and faint with sleep, the sea Should enfold me, and release,

Some old peace to dwell with me.

I would quiet the long crying Of my heart with mournful peace,

The grey sea's, in its low sighing.