I will go, and leave the streetways,
And the world's wild, dinsome places,
With the hurrying, weary feetways,
And the folks of frenzied faces;
I will go through darkened spaces,
Morning glad, or starlight pale,
Through the rivers and the passes,
Till I find among the grasses,
Long sweet sleep among the grasses
Of the graves of Inishail.
Ah, ye daunt me, with your wonder,
And your toils about you lying,
O ye cities, with your thunder,
And your children in you, dying,
And I weary, ever sighing,
For the whisper of the West.
Where the glow and glamour meeting,
And the waves on long shores beating,
Are but echoes of the beating
Of the life's blood in my breast.
I will plait a roof of rashes
For the low place of my sleeping,
Where the wistful water plashes,
Crooning, croodling, laughing, weeping,
And the winds from Cruachan sweeping
Join their gladness and their wail;
Till the angels' glory blinds me,
And the long sleep goes and finds me,
In the tangled grasses finds me,
By the graves of Inishail.
("Inishail", by Anonymous, printing in Poems of the Irish People, 2016)