(from The Dark Breed, 1927)
by F. R. Higgins

THE grey air was thinning
   Over the red lake,
Shading pale herons
   Scarcely awake;
Until on still grasses,
   On shores of cold dew,
The bright ring of sunset
   More brightly grew.

Then mooring my curragh
   In yew trees awhile,
I crushed through the wet dusk
   Of a deep isle;
And cleaving boughs over
   One moonless place,
I stood in the pale light
   Of a pale face.

That face it moved gently
   As dew on the air;
"O come," she said softly,
   Her eyes told me where;
Her words they grew dreamy,
   Her voice gave no fear-
The voice of my true love
   Dead for a year!

I loosened my curragh
   From a yew bough,
Surrounded by music-
   I scarcely hear now
Away on grey waters,
   Away on the lake,
And half of my senses
   Barely awake.