I turn again to the sun
away from the mists and the rain.
Behind I leave half of my heart
lost in the brown bog plain
and its pools of silver light
and the cries in the wild, cold air
of the curlew calling there.
Flying high there and unseen,
it cries for my land and its pain,
my land of the song and the caoin
that I leave and may not see again,
for I leave for far distant parts,
leaving here the half of my heart
and the curlew crying unseen.