TIR-N’AN-OG⁠[1]

O it may be the path that the sea gull takes Will bring us to Tir-n’an-Og to-night, The sorrowful spell of the sea foam makes Their wings so white. Or it may be the gold and the crimson proud Of to-morrow’s sunset will see us come Where far from the trouble of wind and cloud The soul finds home. I’ll be holding you close in a quiet place And may be the trouble will cease That came from wanting your beautiful face, Or turn to peace.