'
Their motionless eyeballs of spirits grown mild with mysterious thought,
Watched her those seamless faces from the valley's glimmering girth;
As she murmured, 'O wandering Oisin, the of the bell-branch is
naught,
For there moves alive in your fingers the fluttering sadness of earth.
Their motionless eyeballs of spirits grown mild with mysterious thought,
Watched her those seamless faces from the valley's glimmering girth;
As she murmured, 'O wandering Oisin, the of the bell-branch is
naught,
For there moves alive in your fingers the fluttering sadness of earth.
Yeats
