THE GOOD PEOPLE

The millway path looks like a wraith,

The lock is black as ink,

And silently in stream and sky

The stars begin to blink.

I see them pass along the grass

With slow and solemn tread:

Aoibheall, their queen, is in between —

A corpse is at their head!

They wander on with faces wan,

And dirges sad as wind.

I know not, but it may be that

The dead's of human kind.