The Kine Of My Father

The kine of my rather, they are straying from my keeping;             The young goats at mischief, but little can I do:      For all through the night did I hear the Banshee keening;             O youth of my loving, and is it well with you?      All through the night sat my mother with my sorrow;             Whisht, it is the wind, O one childeen of my heart!      My hair with the wind, and my two hands clasped in anguish;             Black head of my darling! too long are we apart.      Were your grave at my feet, I would think it half a blessing;             I could herd then the cattle, and drive the goats away;      Many a Paternoster I would say for your safe keeping;             I could sleep above your heart, until the dawn of day.      I see you on the prairie, hot with thirst and faint with hunger;             The head that I love lying low upon the sand.      The vultures shriek impatient, and the coyote dogs are howling,             Till the blood is pulsing cold within your clenching hand.      I see you on the waters, so white, so still forlorn,             Your dear eyes unclosing beneath a foreign rain:      A plaything of the winds, you turn and drift unceasing,             No grave for your resting; O mine the bitter pain!      All through the night did I hear the Banshee keening:             Somewhere you are dying, and nothing can I do;      My hair with the wind, and my two hands clasped in anguish;             Bitter is your trouble-and I am far from you.