On the grey sand beside the shallow stream, Under your old wind-beaten tower, where still A lamp burns on above the open book That Michael Robartes left, you walk in the moon, And, though you have passed the best of life, still trace, Enthralled by the unconquerable delusion, Magical shapes.
On the grey sand beside the shallow stream, Under your old wind-beaten tower, where still A lamp burns on above the open book That Michael Robartes left, you walk in the moon, And, though you have passed the best of life, still trace, Enthralled by the unconquerable delusion, Magical shapes.
