Let me rest here where silence crowns old days,
aying invisible kingdoms at our feet.
I have grown strange to my own self of late;
The colour of life, all sounds, all light and air,
Have wrought a swift enchantment of unrest,
Filling my heart with fire more fierce than war;
So that it yearns for twilight and dim space,
The flowing of sleepy rivers by grey shores
Where wanderers lose both hope and memory,
For thoughts like flowers wait beneath the moon,
Stirred by the breath of every passing mood,
Until the darkness like a great black rose
Shall fold its petals round their quietness.
French, Cecil. “Aithne,” The Green Sheaf vol. 12, 1904, p. 6. Green Sheaf Digital Edition, edited by Lorraine Janzen Kooistra, 2021. Yellow Nineties 2.0, Ryerson University Centre for Digital Humanities, 2021. https://1890s.ca/GSV12-french-aithne/