The Danaan children laugh, in cradles of wrought gold,
And clap their hands together, and half close their eyes,
For they will ride the North when the ger-eagle flies,
With heavy whitening wings, and a heart fallen cold.

I kiss my wailing child and press it to my breast,
And hear the narrow graves calling my child and me,
Desolate wind that cry over the wandering sea;
Desolate wind that hover in the flaming West;

Desolate wind that beats the doors of Heaven, and beat
The doors of [bad word] and blow there many a whimpering ghost;
O heart that winds have shaken, the unappeasable host [bad word] than candles at Mother Mary's feet.

W. B. Yeats