In Manchester

There is a noise of feet that move in sin Under the side-faced moon here where I stray, Want by me like a Nemesis. The din Of noon is in my ears, but far away My thoughts are, where Peace shuts the black-birds' wings And it is cherry time by all the springs.

And this same moon floats like a trail of fire Down the long Boyne, and darts white arrows thro' The mill wood; her white skirt is on the weir, She walks thro' crystal mazes of the dew, And rests awhile upon the dewy slope Where I will hope again the old, old hope.

With wandering we are worn my muse and I, And, if I sing, my song knows nought of mirth. I often think my soul is an old lie In sackcloth, it repents so much of birth. But I will build it yet a cloister home Near the peace of lakes when I have ceased to roam.