Page:The Wild Swans at Coole.djvu/46

 30 And when he played it was their loneliness, The exultation of their stone, that cried Under his fingers.

I had it from his mother, And his own flock was browsing at the door.

How does she bear her grief? There is not a shepherd But grows more gentle when he speaks her name, Remembering kindness done, and how can I, That found when I had neither goat nor grazing New welcome and old wisdom at her fire Till winter blasts were gone, but speak of her Even before his children and his wife.