I have heard the pigeons of the Seven Woods

    Make their faint thunder， and the garden bees

    Hum in the lime-tree flowers； and put away

    The unavailing outcries and the old bitterness

    That empty the heart. I have forgot awhile

    Tara uprooted， and new commonness

    Upon the throne and crying about the streets

    And hanging its paper flowers from post to post，

    Because it is alone of all things happy.

    I am contented， for I know that Quiet

    Wanders laughing and eating her wild heart

    Among pigeons and bees， while that Great Archer，

    Who but awaits His hour to shoot， still hangs

    A cloudy quiver over Parc-na-lee.