INISGALLUN The winds are roaring out of the West Where the clouds are in stormy saffron drest, And the curlew and wild-geese are calling and crying Over the straits in Inisgallun, The heron and cormorant wailing and sighing. Mingling a wild and an endless tune. The winds are roaring out of the West Over the waters of strife and unrest, The shrieking rain in the low pools falling, The strong waves beating a ceaseless rune, And the heron and curlew and wild-geese calling, Vainly lamenting in Inisgullun. The froth and fume of the maddened sea Spit thro' the torn air ceaselessly; And the dark low bog in anguish crying, And the heather wailing in bitter pain; For the winds from out of the West are flying And the Earth will never find peace again. -- Darrell Figgis (1882-1925)