The wind has bundled up the clouds high over Knocknarea And thrown the thunder on the stones for all that Maeve can say. Angers that are like noisy clouds have set our hearts abeat; But we have all bent low and low and kissed the quiet feet Of Cathleen the daughter of Houlihan. The yellow pool has overflowed high up on Clooth-na-Bare, For the wet winds are blowing out of the clinging air; Like heavy flooded waters our bodies and our blood; But purer than a tall candle before the Holy Rood Is Cathleen the daughter of Houlihan. THE OLD MEN ADMIRING THEMSELVES IN THE WATER. I heard the old, old men say 'Everything alters, And one by one we drop away.' They had hands like claws, and their knees Were twisted like the old thorn trees By the waters. I heard the old, old men say 'All that's beautiful drifts away Like the waters.' UNDER THE MOON. 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 Guinivere; And Niam, 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 a story I heard under the thin horn Of the third 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. THE PLAYERS ASK FOR A BLESSING ON THE PSALTERIES AND THEMSELVES.