The Countess Cathleen

All the heavy days are over;

Leave the body's coloured pride

Underneath the grass and clover,

With the feet laid side by side.

[One with her are mirth and duty;

Bear the gold-embroidered dress,

For she needs not her sad beauty,]

To the scented oaken press.

Hers the kiss of Mother Mary,

The long hair is on her face;

Still she goes with footsteps wary

Full of earth's old timid grace.

[With white feet of angels seven

Her white feet go glimmering;

And above the deep of heaven,

Flame on flame, and wing on wing.]