Never forgetful silence fall on thee,
Nor younger voices overtake thee,
Nor echoes from thine ancient hills forsake thee,
Old music heard by Mona of the sea;
And where with moving melodies there break thee,
Pastoral Conway, venerable Dee.
Like music lives, nor may that music die,
Still in the far, fair Gaelic places;
The speech, so wistful with its kindly graces,
Holy Croagh Patrick knows, and holy Hy;
The speech, that wakes the soul in withered faces,
And wakes remembrance of great things gone by.
Like music by the desolate Land's End,
Mournful forgetfulness hath broken;
No more words kindred to the winds are spoken,
Where upon iron cliffs whole seas expend
That strength, whereof the unalterable token
Remains wild music, even to the world's end.
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