'The Wind on the Hills' by Dora Sigerson Shorter (1866-1918).
Go not to the hills of Erin When the night winds are about; Put up your bar and shutter And so keep the danger out. For the good-folk whirl within it, And they pull you by the hand, And they push you on the shoulder, Till you move to their command. And lo! you have forgotten What you have known of tears, And you will not remember That the world goes full of years: A year there is a lifetime And a second but a day; And an older world will meet you Each morn you come away. Your wife grows old with weeping, And your children one by one Grow gray with nights of watching, Before your dance is done. And it will chance some morning You will come home no more; Your wife sees but a withered leaf In the wind about the door. And your children will inherit The unrest of the wind; They shall seek some face elusive, And some land they never find. When the wind is loud, they sighing Go with hearts unsatisfied, For some joy beyond remembrance, For some memory denied. And all your children's children, They cannot sleep or rest, When the wind is out in Erin And the sun is in the West.