BRIGHT is the ring of words When the right man rings them, Fair the fall of songs When the singer sings them.
Still they are carolled and said -
On wings they are carried -
After the singer is dead And the maker buried.
Low as the singer lies In the field of heather, Songs of his fashion bring The swains together.
And when the west is red With the sunset embers, The lover lingers and sings And the maid remembers.
