Drifting, drifting towards Dunmoran,
Benbulbin and Knocknarea,
darkening the bay of Ballisodare,
the wind sweeps howling,
wetting and dousing,
the mountain carpet.
With incessant rain
and sheep languish on Ladies Brae
with Yeats asleep,
and Mebdh at rest
upon the hill at Knocknarea,
wind lament as like a banshee.
The poets bare Benbulbin
waits, calmly,
as a ghost ship in the bay.
With such beginnings
Noah went to work.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem