““XXVIII Why the Irish Drink Leaves talking to one another in the summer breeze Stands of grass caught in floods of spring We are not the wind We are not the flood We are empty cups We are the silent dark between the stars Cold clay pressed Against the heart of the warm earth We may be the moon hiding in the highest branch's of the trees We may be sound of morning birds We may be tears from inner seas Wanderers all looking for home””
