May Eve

There's a crying at my window, and a hand upon my door, 
And a stir among the yarrow that's fading on the floor: 
The voice cries at my window, the hand at my door beats on, 
But if I heed and answer them, sure, hand and voice are gone. 

You would not heed my calling once, and now why would I hear? 
You would not hold my wistful hand, but let it fall, my dear: 
You would not give me word or look, but went your silent way, 
Oh, wirrasthrue, dumb mouth of you that had so much to say. 

Be still, my dear: I heed, I hear, but cannot help you now, 
The rose is dead that was so red, and snow's upon her bough. 
Be still, be still a little while, for I shall surely come 
And kiss the sorrow from your eyes, and from your kind lips dumb. 

Be patient now, avourneen! you may not lift the latch: 
Go hence: the wind is bitter cold that whistles through the thatch. 
The wind is cold, and I am old, but you're young and fair to see, 
And my heart turns to you night and day, my fair love leaving me!