O come to me in the soaring dawn
Of a brittle lovers April.
Though the grasping wind
Thy tourmaline cape
A shroud and winding sheet make.

Compass about the stinging shades
Of that crackling, broken day.
As the simpering sun
From thy schappe gown
A tender wedding bed makes.

Then loft the agate chalice high
In the sight of Brigandu.
Though Danu’s crushing,
Ice-cold stream
Would drown thee in its flow.

And so, unbidden, come to me now,
Heed not the tocsin’s toll.
‘Tis but the trembling, bitter air
Bidding thy naked steps toward
Its shuddering, fiery wake.

(with apologies, posthumously, to W.B.YEATS)