| I have no happiness in dreaming of Brycelinde, |
| Nor Avalon the grass-green hollow, nor Joyous Isle, |
| Where one found Lancelot crazed and hid him for a while; |
| Nor Ulad, when Naoise had thrown a sail
upon the wind; |
| Nor lands that seem too dim to be burdens on the heart: |
| Land-under-Wave, where out
of the moon’s light and the sun’s |
| Seven old sisters wind the threads of the long-lived ones, |
| Land-of-
the-Tower, where Aengus has thrown the gates apart, |
| And Wood-of-Wonders, where one kills an ox
at dawn, |
| To find it when night falls laid on a golden bier. |
| Therein are many queens like Branwen and
Guinevere; |
|
|
|
|
| And Niamh and Laban and Fand, who could change to an otter or fawn, |
| And the wood-woman,
whose lover was changed to a blue-eyed hawk; |
| And whether I go in my dreams by woodland, or dun, or
shore, |
| Or on the unpeopled waves with kings to pull at the oar, |
| I hear the harp-string praise them, or
hear their mournful talk. |
|
|
|
|
| Because of something told under the famished horn |
| Of the hunter’s moon, that
hung between the night and the day, |
| To dream of women whose beauty was folded in dismay, |
| Even in
an old story, is a burden not to be borne. |