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440 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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Western the winds are, And western the waters, Where the light lies:
Oh ! what are the winds ? And what are the waters ? Mine are your eyes.
Cold, cold grow the winds, And dark grow the waters, Where the sun dies:
Oh ! what are the winds ? And what are the waters ? Mine are your eyes.
And down the night winds And down the night waters, The music flies:
O ! what are the winds ? And what are the waters ? Cold be the winds, And wild be the waters, So mine be your eyes. |
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WAYS OF WAR
A
TERRIBLE and splendid trust Heartens the host of Innisfail: ' Their dream is of the swift sword-thrust, A lightning glory of the Gael. |
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