Of love and birth.
There are faces hungry for smiles, and starving fingers
Reaching for dreams.

And like a memory are the wind-swept chords of night,
And the wide melody of evening sky
Where gleams
A colour like the echo of a horn.
There is a far hill where winds die,
And over the hill lies music yet unborn.

VI

Maura lies dead at last,
The body she gave to child and lover
Now feeds flower and tree.

Earth's arms are wide to her. What breast
Offers such gentle sleeping?
Her limbs lie peacefully.

From the dark West
There comes a note like the echoing cry
Of one who rides through the dusk alone
After the hunt sweeps by.

It fades--the night wind is forlorn--
Music is still,
But Maura has followed the silver horn
Over the distant hill,