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 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 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 HOLLOW WOOD O HURRY to the water amid the trees, For there the tall deer and his leman sigh When they have but looked upon their images, O that none ever loved but you and I! Or have you heard that sliding silver-shoed, Pale silver-proud queen-woman of the sky, When the sun looked out of his golden hood, O that none ever loved but you and I! O hurry to the hollow wood, for there I will drive out the deer and moon and cry— O my share of the world, O yellow hair, No one has ever loved but you and I! O DO NOT LOVE TOO LONG SWEETHEART, do not love too long: I loved long and long, And grew to be out of fashion Like an old song. All through the years of our youth Neither could have known Their own thought from the other’s, We were so much at one. But, O in a minute she changed— O do not love too long, Or you will grow out of fashion Like an old song. THE PLAYERS ASK FOR A BLESSING ON THE PSALTERIES AND ON THEMSELVES _Three voices together_: HURRY to bless the hands that play, The mouths that speak, the notes and strings, O masters of the glittering town! O! lay the shrilly trumpet down, Though drunken with the flags that sway Over the ramparts and the towers, And with the waving of your wings. _First voice_: Maybe they linger by the way. One gathers up his purple gown; One leans and mutters by the wall— He dreads the weight of mortal hours. _Second voice_: O no, O no! they hurry down Like plovers that have heard the call. _Third voice_: O kinsmen of the Three in One, O kinsmen bless the hands that play. The notes they waken shall live on When all this heavy history’s done; Our hands, our hands must ebb away. _Three voices together_: