I walk among Dooncarton’s seven grey stones;
they lay about my knees and waist
like Sidhe come fresh from the square white door,
calling a mortal t’abandon his place
and to the dim land quickly come.
Ah, there you’ll find joy may be bought for a penny,
but penny’s-worth joy ’tis like to be.
Across Broad Haven from where I stand,
the grey cliffs of Rinroe Point I see,
and I see ships and hopes they’ve dashed.
The world may be more full of weeping
than ever I may understand;
but joy sans sorrow ought not be,
as ’tis, I’ve heard, in faery-land.
The songs of the Sidhe sound all alike.