Clinton Scollard

Queens

  Fair Maeve, that was queen of Beauty,
    Whither, whither has she gone?
  Ask the cairn that over Sligo
    Lifts its stones to greet the dawn!

  Deirdre, that was queen of Sorrow,
    Whither, whither has she fled?
  Ask the woods of Finglas Water
    That once knew her lissome tread!

  Queens!—they are no more than mortal;
    Even they must pale and pass
  Like the prismy dews of dawning
    On the heather and the grass!