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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=358460" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Irish Nocturne</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=358460" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Now the grey mist comes creeping up<br>From the waste ocean’s weedy strand<br>And fills the valley, as a cup<br>If filled of evil drink in a wizard’s hand;<br>And the trees fade out of sight,<br>Like dreary ghosts unhealthily,<br>Into the damp, pale night,<br>Till you almost think that a clearer eye could see<br>Some shape come up of a demon seeking apart<br>His meat, as Grendel sought in Harte<br>The thanes that sat by the wintry log—<br>Grendel or the shadowy mass<br>Of Balor, or the man with the face of clay,<br>The grey, grey walker who used to pass<br>Over the rock-arch nightly to his prey.<br>But here at the dumb, slow stream where the willows hang,<br>With never a wind to blow the mists apart,<br>Bitter and bitter it is for thee. O my heart,<br>Looking upon this land, where poets sang,<br>Thus with the dreary shroud<br>Unwholesome, over it spread,<br>And knowing the fog and the cloud<br>In her people’s heart and head<br>Even as it lies for ever upon her coasts<br>Making them dim and dreamy lest her sons should ever arise<br>And remember all their boasts;<br>For I know that the colourless skies<br>And the blurred horizons breed<br>Lonely desire and many words and brooding and never a deed.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Clive+Staples+Lewis">Clive Staples Lewis</a></strong></div>