“Westward on the low sweet strand Where songs are sung of the old green Irish land, And the sky loves it, and the sea loves best, And as a bird is taken to man’s breast The sweet-souled land where sorrow sweetest sings Is wrapt round with them as with hands and wings And taken to the sea’s heart as a flower” When people go away from Clonmalroan, they go away, as a rule, very thoroughly. Their absence is an absence more complete than that of other persons from other places less out of the world and behind the times. Once any traveller’s departing form has been beheld pass round the turn in the deep-banked boreen, or watched dwindle into a speck on the straight road streaking the wide bog-lan…
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