But the harsh logic of Ulster left me, and the soft mood of Ulster
came on me as I remembered him, and I going into the town on the train.
And the late winter grass, of Westchester, spare, scrofulous; the
jerry-built bungalows; the lines of uncomely linen; the blatant
advertising boards -- all the unbeauty of it passed away, and I was
again in the Antrim glens. There was the soft purple of the Irish
Channel, and there the soft, dim outline of Scotland. There was the
herring school silver in the sun, and I could see it from the crags
where the surf boomed like a drum. And underfoot was the springy
heather, the belled and purple heather. . .

And there came to me again the vision of the old man's thatched
farmhouse when the moon was up and the bats were out, and the winds
of the County Antrim came bellying down the glens. . .The turf fire
burned on the hearth, now red, now yellow, and there was the golden
light of lamps, and Malachi of the Long Glen was reciting some poem
of Blind Raftery's, or the lament of Pierre Ronsard for Mary, Queen
of Scots:
Ta ribin o mo cheadshearc ann mo phocs sios.
Agas mna Eirip ni leigheasfadaois mo bhron, faraor!
Ta me reidh leat go ndeantar comhra caol!
Agas gobhfasfaidh an fear no dhiaidh sin thrid mo lar anios!

There is a ribbon from my only love in my pocket deep,
And the women of Europe they could not cure my grief, alas!
I am done with you until a narrow coffin be made for me.
And until the grass shall grow after that up through my heart!

And I suddenly discovered on the rumbling train that apart from the
hurling and the foot-ball and the jumping of horses, what life I