Through rocky crag the thick wind blows,
Thick the heather darken rounds,
Past the iron fog disused, the muted bridge
I cross; slow the mule track I wander-
Through forest, through valley soft-suffused.
The autumnal evening far down, with strangled
Sound, doth the rivulet complain; where the mist
Swift rush the spectral vapors white, past
Outcropping’s scars with ragged pines, then
Blotting from my sight; through cloud drifts wet
And drear, the Bothy doth appear on higher mounts
Up the ancient encircling glen; I gaze- through the
Showery twilight grey, what slated roof for shelter;
Approach, for what I seek is here; alight with sword
And battle ax, a gallóglaigh, stone-carved basin cold.
Silence, with no organ peal, I knelt, then rose from
Dirt worn floor where he sleeps, that wooded bed-
Which shall be his coffin, death in life; and what
Am I, that I am here? A knight, purged in faith, at
Whose behest long ago possessed my soul again.