The Parting of the Ways

What was the dream in your eyes grown dim when the dawn awoke, and at night's gates cried, 
And a billow of red flushed overhead the faces of dead stars swept aside? 
What dream did you dream that you turned from him that loved you best o' the world, asthore, 
That you turned your head on your weary bed, and no word said as you passed Death's door? 

Which way to follow by hill and hollow, and on, and over the green world's rim? 
By the Land of Youth where kind words are sooth, and for bitter truth no eyes grow dim? 
Or in darker ways, where the end is haze and the traveller strays amid fields forlorn, 
Where in thorny brakes for their light loves' sakes poor lovers wander, and see no morn? 

Were you sinner or saint, blue eyes and faint gold hair hanging down on your breast of snow? 
Shall I find in heaven your soul forgiven, or seek unshriven where the four winds blow, 
Where rain is red, and kind Hope lies dead on a golden bed in ghostly state, 
And none may borrow of joy or sorrow the gift whereby they may pass the gate? 

Come back and say where you dwell to-day, my colleen oge and my colleen bawn: 
If I must go where the light burns low, and never a night is friends with dawn? 
Or upwards climb to the steeps sublime, where even the hills near by are blue? 
Which way will I take for my storeen's sake? which way, agra, must I follow you?