trees, the serene stature, now dressed in copper;
shadowy wights against the sphere of grey.
as then, bathed in rain-drenched cobblestone tapis,
with red, corrugated roofs resting on pure white walls
and gutters leaking the raindrops to a rain-soaked earth
while lightning cloak the afternoon a galactic lustre

the evening mimes the merry ambiance;
while folks, diverge from the Moore abode,
happy folks, in unhappy clothes, now hasten home
away to the cottages, horse-carts the dirt roads hurry,
while hound dogs in disarray, the hunter's camp, while
and on a hill a castle leans against the mirky sky.

through the streets of Dublin the young boy ran,
loathing the cold and wet winter days,
relishing the cool and crisp autumn noons.
he often ran through his mother's heart
who ideated him a counselor in the high courts of Eire

music and the arts his sights early invade,
though the dream that birthed in the minds of friends,
who sang the ancient Irish songs, his troubled mind,
the turmoil in his soul, the unfulfilled desire fed.

'tis fate that followed such a life,
in which the passion flamingly dwell,
'tis calamity that abode the intricate being,
his kinfolk claimed one by one.

But fate the history of the Irish melodist rewrite,
as musos, most of them, enchanted by
the linguistic form, put music to the volumed work,
of the most misconstrued artist of his time.