The quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves,
The full round moon and the star-laden sky,
And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves,
Had hid away earth's old and weary cry.

And then you came with those red mournful lips,
And with you came the whole of the world's tears,
And all the trouble of her laboring ships,
And all the trouble of her myriad years.

And now the sparrows warring in the eaves,
The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky,
And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves,
Are shaken with earth's old and weary cry.

Through the rain stained glass,
With a sickly purple hue,
I can see early marsh orchid,
And it makes me think of you.

The gardener's son
Is looking at it too,
His sickly grey suit
Makes me think of you.

I was not born a bog child,
I was only passing through,
The Irish Lady's Tresses
Made me think of you.

If I'm the last white cloud at sunset
You're the morning hue of the sky (orange-red).
If I'm the concentrated chaos in my eyes
You're the mirthful flash of your pearly whites.
If you're the cool blue pool in summertime
I'm the orange orange (which doesn't even rhyme).
We're poles apart, you and I
But once in a while we see eye to eye
And the space in which our gaze meets
Is as close as I'll be to infinity.

People don't realize the damage they've caused until they open their eyes and see the ashes of what once was and the fires burning what will never be again