Why does my heart beat so ? Did not a shadow pass ? It passed but a moment ago . Who can have trod in the grass ? What rogue is night-wandering ? Have not old writers said That dizzy dreams can spring From the dry bones of the dead ? And many a night it seems That all the valley fills With those fantastic dreams . They overflow the hills , So passionate is a shade , Like wine that fills to the top A grey-green cup of jade , Or maybe an agate cup .The hour before dawn and the moon covered up . The little village of Abbey is covered up ; The little narrow trodden way that runs From the white road to the Abbey of Corcomroe Is covered up ; and all about the hills Are like a circle of Agate or of Jade . Somewhere among great rocks on the scarce grass Birds cry , they cry their loneliness . Even the sunlight can be lonely here , Even hot noon is lonely . I hear a footfall — A young man with a lantern comes this way . He seems an Aran fisher , for he wears The flannel bawneen and the cow-hide shoe . He stumbles wearily , and stumbling prays .Once more the birds cry in their loneliness , But now they wheel about our heads ; and now They have dropped on the grey stone to the north-east . They 've passed the shallow well and the flat stone Fouled by the drinking cattle , the narrow lane Where mourners for five centuries have carried Noble or peasant to his burial . An owl is crying out above their heads .Why should the heart take fright What sets it beating so ? The bitter sweetness of the night Has made it but a lonely thing . Red bird of March , begin to crow , Up with the neck and clap the wing , Red cock , and crow .And now they have climbed through the long grassy field And passed the ragged thorn trees and the gap In the ancient hedge ; and the tomb-nested owl At the foot 's level beats with a vague wing .My head is in a cloud ; I 'd let the whole world go . My rascal heart is proud Remembering and remembering . Red bird of March , begin to crow , Up with the neck and clap the wing Red cock and crow .They are among the stones above the ash Above the briar and thorn and the scarce grass ; Hidden amid the shadow far below them The cat-headed bird is crying out .The dreaming bones cry out Because the night winds blow And heaven 's a cloudy blot ; Calamity can have its fling . Red bird of March begin to crow , Up with the neck and clap the wing Red cock and crow . A woman 's beauty is like a white Frail bird , like a white sea-bird alone At daybreak after stormy night Between two furrows upon the ploughed land : A sudden storm and it was thrown Between dark furrows upon the ploughed land . How many centuries spent The sedentary soul In toils of measurement Beyond eagle or mole , Beyond hearing or seeing , Or Archimedes guess , To raise into being That loveliness ? A strange unserviceable thing , A fragile , exquisite , pale shell , That the vast troubled waters bring To the loud sands before day has broken . The storm arose and suddenly fell Amid the dark before day had broken . What death ? what discipline ? What bonds no man could unbind Being imagined within The labyrinth of the mind ? What pursuing or fleeing ? What wounds , what bloody press ? Dragged into being This loveliness .