The Ballad of Father Gilligan The woman is found dead in the last Of the December skies, her body grows Old deep, pitiful, alone and gone, And do not rise without a sign. And twilight must break upon the world; But the people gather under night, They will tread along with weary knees And take the opening of the grave.
Moreover, night adores the mind of man, The sleeping dust that sounds so cool, Three times the twilight passes; with fine arms And with all love binding close the spirit, That tells of hope, of trouble and delight.
Of the healing spring, shall the graves be bare; My dreams are creeping near, therefore must it flee; Love old as the skies beneath my brow Can I see it from this day, its wisdom true?
No matter the amount of tears these hearts have shed But the flowers that crawl among the shores Bring joy and take no end to the memory, So I rest within my weaving light.
Therefore do not curse the dark at all: The size of sorrow must be mind With folly streaming where memories dwell; My heart shall share its love with you alone.
- William Butler Yeats