A Cycle of Five Songs for Low Voice

It is a whisper among the hazel bushes ; 
It is a long, low, whispering voice that fills 
With a sad music the bending and swaying rushes ; 
It is a heart-beat deep in the quiet hills. 

Twilight people, why will you still be crying, 
Crying and calling to me out of the trees ? 
For under the quiet grass the wise are lying, 
And all the strong ones are gone over the seas. 

And I am old, and in my heart at your calling 
Only the old dead dreams a-fluttering go ; 
As the wind, the forest wind, in its falling 
Sets the withered leaves fluttering to and fro. 

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The grand road from the mountain goes shining to the sea,
And there is traffic in it and many a horse and cart,
But the little roads of Cloonagh are dearer far to me,
And the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling through my heart.

A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o'er the hill,
And there is glory in it and terror on the wind,
But the haunted air of twilight is very strange and still,
And the little winds of twilight are dearer to my mind.

The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on their way,
Shining green and silver with the hidden herring shoal,
But the Little Waves of Breffny have drenched my heart in spray,
And the Little Waves of Breffny go stumbling through my soul.

For all my sorrow I have been more glad
 . . . . . . . . . .

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