| faces, |
| Till Maeve called out, ‘These are but common men. |
| The Maines’ children have not dropped their
spades |
| Because Earth, crazy for its broken power, |
| Casts up a show and the winds answer it |
| With holy
shadows.’ Her high heart was glad, |
| And when the uproar ran along the grass |
| She followed with light
footfall in the midst, |
| Till it died out where an old thorn-tree stood. |
|
|
|
|
| Friend of these many years, you too
had stood |
| With equal courage in that whirling rout; |
| For you, although you’ve not her wandering heart, |
| Have all that greatness, and not hers alone, |
| For there is no high story about queens |
| In any ancient book
but tells of you; |
| And when I’ve heard how they grew old and died, |
| Or fell into unhappiness, I’ve said, |
| ‘She will grow old and die, and she has wept!’ |
| And when I’d write it out anew, the words, |
| Half crazy
with the thought, She too has wept! |
| Outrun the measure. |
|
|
|
|
| I’d tell of that great queen |
| Who stood amid
a silence by the thorn |
| Until two lovers came out of the air |
| With bodies made out of soft fire. The one, |
| About whose face birds wagged their fiery wings, |
| Said, ‘Aengus and his sweetheart give their thanks |
| To Maeve and to Maeve’s household, owing all |
|
|
|
|
| In owing them the bride-bed that gives peace.’ |
| Then
Maeve: ‘O Aengus, Master of all lovers, |
| A thousand years ago you held high talk |
| With the first kings of
many-pillared Cruachan. |
| O when will you grow weary?’ |
| They had vanished; |
| But out of the dark air over
her head there came |
| A murmur of soft words and meeting lips. |
