Cruit Mo Chruidh

Shadows pool softly in hollows of skin,
And flow from the places where fingers have been;
She hungers to know his low music again,
But the night is a harpstring pulled tightly, and thin.

The silks in her chamber are cold as the air,
And the bolster beside her, unbearably bare--
She closes her eyes, and she looks on him there,
With his arm round her waist, and the moon in his hair.

But the dawn is a ship that comes, ghostly and grey,
On the tide of the morning to bear him away,
And the unraveled dream gives its threads to the day,
Like the strings of a harp left too lonesome to play.

Shadows pool softly in corners and halls,
And silence hangs heavy from tapestried walls
But she knows the low music the instant it falls,
For the night always sings when it answers his call.

And no dream that might fade is it falls with her there,
With his arm round her waist, and the moon in his hair,
He has cradled his harp with the tenderest care,
And the night swells to life with the music they share.