THE COMING OF NIAMH by JAMES HENRY COUSINS

SOFTLY, as comes a wind across the sea
That thrills the waves to music on the beach,
And stirs the trees to whisperings each to each,
And bids the birds pipe low sweet song of glee;

So, like a summer morning, came to me
My Queen, my Niamh; and her gentle speech
Spake regal lineage longer than the reach
Of memory, older than the thrones that be.

And thro' the tumults that around me rise,
She speaks of hidden and tremendous things --
Grails yet unwon, and Quests that never cease;
And calls me forth to where, with quenchless eyes,
She with the deathless dwells, and folds her wings
Enthroned in vast, unutterable Peace.

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