W.B. Yeats (1865–1939). The Wind Among the Reeds. 1899.

30. Hanrahan laments because of his Wanderings

O WHERE is our Mother of Peace

Nodding her purple hood?

For the winds that awakened the stars

Are blowing through my blood.

I would that the death-pale deer

Had come through the mountain side,

And trampled the mountain away,

And drunk up the murmuring tide;

For the winds that awakened the stars

Are blowing through my blood,

And our Mother of Peace has forgot me

Under her purple hood.