My "Ubi Sunt" motif

What follows is one of my favorite Seamus Heaney poems, not least because it catches the feel of a place and how it affects us in a more profound way. Having recently moved (again), I've been experiencing some of that wistful nostalgia for what's gone, what's passed and not coming back, and I feel like I've gathered up all those "ubi sunt" motifs old epics and sprinkled them across my memory. (Which may or may not be healthy. Probably not.) But I don't want to pine for the past, so I'll just enjoy rereading the Seamus Heaney poem, right?

Postscript
And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightening of flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully-grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you'll park or capture it
More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.

.....

Where is the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing? They have passed like rain on the mountains. Like wind in the meadow. The days have gone down in the west. Behind the hills, into shadow.