THE little moths are creeping br Across the cottage pane; br On the floor the chickens gather, br And they make talk and complain. br br And she sits by the fire br Who has reared so many men; br Her voice is low like the chickens' br With the things she says again: br br 'The sons that come back do be restless, br They search for the thing to say; br Then they take thought like the swallows, br And the morrow brings them away. br br In the old, old days upon Innish, br The fields were lucky and bright, br And if you lay down you'd be covered br By the grass of one soft night. br br And doves flew with every burial br That went to Innishore br Two white doves with the coffened, br But the doves fly no more.' br br She speaks and the chickens gather, br And they make talk and complain, br While the little moths are creeping br Across the cottage pane.