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69 Terese Coe Clooth-na-Bare Was it for this the wild geese spread, And all that lamentation of the leaves? Why, what could she have done, being what she is? When all the wild summer was in her gaze. And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare, The wind blows out of the gates of the day, God stands winding His lonely horn, And all that’s beautiful drifts away: A climbing moon upon an empty sky, And niamh calling Away, come away. ...

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