II

Well can I recall that eve at Sligo,

And the vacant arches of the abbey

Framing the ethereal rose of sunset!

Round about me silence and gray shadow

Peopled with the wraiths of time departed,—

Monks with back-thrown cowls who pace the cloisters

Now deep-mounded, crumbled, clad with ivy.

No more from the tower their chimes of silver

Will the bells fling o'er the town and river,

O'er the Garavogue soft-gliding seaward!

Nevermore — save in deep dreams at midnight.

Death, the immemorial lord of mortals,

He is abbot in the aisles of Sligo

Till the spheres proclaim the resurrection!