ALULVAN

The sun is clear of bird and cloud,

The grass shines windless, grey and still,

In dusky ruin the owl dreams on,

The cuckoo echoes on the hill;

Yet soft along Alulvan's walks

The ghost at noonday stalks.

His eyes in shadow of his hat

Stare on the ruins of his house;

His cloak, up-fastened with a brooch,

Of faded velvet grey as mouse,

Brushes the roses as he goes:

Yet wavers not one rose.

The wild birds in a cloud fly up

From their sweet feeding in the fruit;

The droning of the bees and flies

Rises gradual as a lute;

Is it for fear the birds are flown,

And shrills the insect-drone?

Thick is the ivy over Alulvan,

And crisp with summer-heat its turf;

Far, far across its empty pastures

Alulvan's sands are white with surf:

And he himself is grey as the sea,

Watching beneath an elder-tree.

All night the fretful, shrill Banshee

Lurks in the ivy's dark festoons,

Calling for ever, o'er garden and river,

Through magpie changing of the moons:

“Alulvan, O, alas! Alulvan,

The doom of lone Alulvan!”