C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Fiona MacLeod (William Sharp) (1855–1905)

EILIDH, Eilidh, Eilidh, heart of me, dear and sweet!

In dreams I am hearing the whisper, the sound of your coming feet;

The sound of your coming feet that like the sea-hoofs beat

A music by day and night, Eilidh, on the sands of my heart, my sweet!

O sands of my heart, what wind moans low along thy shadowy shore?

Is that the deep sea-heart I hear with the dying sob at its core?

Each dim lost wave that lapses is like a closing door:

’Tis closing doors they hear at last who soon shall hear no more,

Who soon shall hear no more.

Eilidh, Eilidh, Eilidh, come home, come home to the heart o’ me!

It is pain I am having ever, Eilidh, a pain that will not be.

Come home, come home, for closing doors are as the waves o’ the sea,—

Once closed they are closed forever, Eilidh, lost, lost for thee and me,

Lost, lost, for thee and me.