Aleel

She sleeps high up on wintry Knock-na-rea In an old cairn of stones; while her poor women Must lie and jog in the wave if they would sleep-- Being water born--yet if she cry their names They run up on the land and dance in the moon Till they are giddy and would love as men do, And be as patient and as pitiful. But there is nothing that will stop in their heads They've such poor memories, though they weep for it. Oh, yes, they weep; that's when the moon is full.