QUEENS

Fair Maeve, that was queen of Beauty,

Whither, whither has she gone?

Ask the cairn that over Sligo

Lifts its stones to greet the dawn!

Deirdre, that was queen of Sorrow,

Whither, whither has she fled?

Ask the woods of Finglas Water

That once knew her lissome tread!

Queens!— they are no more than mortal;

Even they must pale and pass

Like the prismy dews of dawning

On the heather and the grass!