Still, this fearsome sibylline wonder falls
Silent to her very parting lips.
Her soft, resilient splendour candid dips
Below her barren, naked, winter halls

The silent wind who lulls; a stolid wall–
As a river empty of passing ships
Creates for her a quiet, lulling crypt;
A place of fitful reverie that all

Might pass unheeded. Still it signifies
Her needed rest; her ever-present pain;
A tribute to her elemental dance,
Whose song remains in echoing reply.
Sing, my Goddess, sing thy great romance;
Thine awe inspired dance wast not in vain!

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

Within the misted shrouds of Erin’s dark
And fertile land–so dark, the magic there–
The Lady courseth through the land and air
Where no man shall her baneful music hark.

Yet keens’ she still to heather and to lark;
Her soul, still toucheth, frighteningly fair
As dark, her opalescent, raven, hair.
But now, stand solemn cairns of stone who mark

The bed of earth where she hath lain to rest.
And dreameth, ominous, as given life,
Her gift of fearsome song, and of her man;
From death he craveth comfort of her breast.

Who feeleth still, where ere he drifts’; the land
He toucheth, dark, as with her spirit rife.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all: