Клинтон Сколлард (Clinton Scollard)

At Killybegs

  At Killybegs above the crags
    The gray gulls pipe with voices thinned,
  And all the green trees are like flags
    That wave and waver in the wind.

  At Killybegs about the dunes
    Rustle the crispy grass and whin,
  And low the long tide croons and croons
    As it creeps out, as it creeps in.

  At Killybegs the white sails race
    When the blue sea is like a floor;
  Like doubt night falls with haggard face;
    Sometimes the ships return no more.

  The brown bee drains the cottage flowers
    Of honey to their crimson dregs,
  And love hath many happy hours
    'Twixt birth and death at Killybegs!

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