Yeats wrote of this in his beloved Sligo poetry environment
and so
I visit there as if a sacred holy space
as if the Lake at Galilee.
A master was there. Of words made flesh.
At this lake I remember the Young brother who taught English in junior school. His words have led me here, a good forgotten man. A handsome man, of moneyed class who, gave it all for love of god. Remembered? Except being here remembers his en theos.
The lake cupped between the mountains,
Bulbin and its sisters.
he has woven a spell, his magic words
over Glencar.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem