The Irish Raven
Like a spear his spout does pierce The saturated air When he in flight does lift his frock Like a dancer fair.
His dress is darkened like the night But glimmers as the stars When he is bathed in seldom light Poured out by sunnen’s jars.
At lightened hills did he begin His journey over lands Well-fed by rain and ancient tales And formed by stormy hands.
But will his journey ever end? This nobody can say. In his wild heart he carries home And needs no place to stay.