Alulvan

The sun is clear of bird and cloud,      The grass shines windless, grey, and still,      In dusky ruin the owl dreams on,      The cuckoo echoes on the hill;         Yet soft along Alulvan's walks          The ghost at noonday stalks.      His eyes in shadow of his hat      Stare on the ruins of his house;      His cloak, up-fasten'd with a brooch,      Of faded velvet grey as mouse,         Brushes the roses as he goes:          Yet wavers not one rose.      The wild birds in a cloud fly up      From their sweet feeding in the fruit;      The droning of the bees and flies      Rises gradual as a lute;         Is it for fear the birds are flown,          And shrills the insect-drone?      Thick is the ivy o'er Alulvan,      And crisp with summer-heat its turf;      Far, far across its empty pastures      Alulvan's sands are white with surf:         And he himself is grey as sea,          Watching beneath an elder-tree.      All night the fretful, shrill Banshee      Lurks in the chambers' dark festoons,      Calling for ever, o'er garden and river,      Through magpie changing of the moons:         'Alulvan, O, alas! Alulvan,          The doom of lone Alulvan!'