Teacht an
Fhomhair, a’s na laethanta ‘dul gairid,
Crannaibh
loma, a’s an ghealach ina h-áird-sheol,
I riocht an ghéoidh ghlais, éan na gárthaibh gairbhe,
‘Taisteal
na bóithre a rith eadrainn, níorbh mhoill dom.
Glas iad na
tonnta ‘briseadh ar tránna na hoileáin,
An ghaoth
measc crainn coll, ‘caoineadh a cluintear ann;
Ní thaise den róin, a’s an damh ag buirigh ann;
‘S ann fós tógann a
sheolta an t-éan seo deirim-se.
Ach is fada ó’n duíche
sin ár máduinn ‘fograítear;
Measctha le radios ár
solas-ne, a’s curam-lae duinn memos’
An seabhac méar, an
ghé ghlas, insan bhall seo, ní fheictear iad;
A’s géar cráite fós
fágtar i dtaobh leis an gcleite mé.
Autumn coming in, and
the days run short,
Bare trees and the
moon sailing high.
In the shape of the
wild goose, that bird of the harsh cry,
I would not be long
travelling the roads that lay between us.
Gray the waves
breaking on the strand of the island;
the voice of the wind
among the hazel bushes;
There the seal gives
cry. There the stag bells;
There still the bird
that I speak of stretches out his wings.
But it is far from
that country that the day announces itself to us now:
Our morning light
comes to us mixed with radios, and we fill our time with memos;
The vehement hawk, the
wild goose, do not come into this place;
And with sharp sorrow,
I turn to take up my pen.

