I saw the daughter of the sun; she stood
Under the north rise of the copse, where now
The shade-hoar faded, where began to show
Pale primrose heads, fresh as her own pale hood
Of straight hair, groups of early mercury
No greener than her own plain sheeny gown -
Long had I wandered in the winter-town
Of smoke-grey fog, of stone grey field and tree
Nor girl she seemed, nor goddess; her grave face’
Soft as a child’s, yet wise, brighter than spring,
More warm than summer, had strange shadowing,
Then mundane lustre held both more and less;
No mirth was there, no glee, no eagerness,
No love, save love for every living thing.
(Old Angel statue circa 1915 found in a graveyard in County Wicklow, Ireland).