Irish Channel 

2 

The dream of which our spiritual life is born
Returns to haunt us still but sternly more subdued
		As ’twere a horn
Whose voice grows faint in dark recesses of a Wood.

But, oh, what wild melodious languor does that blast
Pierce our grave worldly hearts with between sleep and sleep!
		And what at last
Shall be its sweetness lost in the woods’ farthest deep.
 
O spiritual shape that to our life gives birth,
Too burning bright to mix with shadowy thoughts of day,
		Or tread the earth,
Whose sweetness grows forever in our hopes' decay

You come and bring to me tears of delight to weep, 
Eyes I remember well, lips I have never known,
		While our strong ship
Crushes her way through the calm russet seas at dawn.



Source: O'Connor, Frank; Three Old Brothers and Other Poems; 1936;
London; Thomas Nelson & Sons Ltd.; p.23