How a Princess Edain, A daughter of a King of Ireland, heard A voice singing on a May Eve like this, And followed, half awake and half asleep, Until she came into the land of faery, Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue; And she is still there, busied with a dance, Deep in the dewy shadow of a wood, Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top. MAURTEEN BRUIN. Persuade the colleen to put by the book: My grandfather would mutter just such things, And he was no judge of a dog or horse, And any idle boy could blarney him: Just speak your mind. FATHER HART. Put it away, my colleen. God spreads the heavens above us like great wings, And gives a little round of deeds and days, And then come the wrecked angels and set snares, And bait them with light hopes and heavy dreams, Until the heart is puffed with pride and goes, Half shuddering and half joyous, from God’s peace: And it was some wrecked angel, blind from tears, Who flattered Edain’s heart with merry words. My colleen, I have seen some other girls Restless and ill at ease, but years went by And they grew like their neighbours and were glad In minding children, working at the churn, And gossiping of weddings and of wakes; For life moves out of a red flare of dreams Into a common light of common hours, Until old age bring the red flare again. SHAWN BRUIN. Yet do not blame her greatly, Father Hart, For she is dull while I am in the fields, And mother’s tongue were harder still to bear, But for her fancies: this is May Eve too, When the good people post about the world, And surely one may think of them to-night. Maire, have you the primroses to fling Before the door to make a golden path For them to bring good luck into the house? Remember, they may steal new-married brides After the fall of twilight on May Eve. [_MAIRE BRUIN goes over to the window and takes flowers from the bowl and strews them outside the door._ FATHER HART. You do well, daughter, because God permits Great power to the good people on May Eve. SHAWN BRUIN. They can work all their will with primroses; Change them to golden money, or little flames To burn up those who do them any wrong. MAIRE BRUIN [_in a dreamy voice_]. I had no sooner flung them by the door Than the wind cried and hurried them away; And then a child came running in the wind And caught them in her hands and fondled them: Her dress was green: her hair was of red gold; Her face was pale as water before dawn. FATHER HART. Whose child can this be? MAURTEEN BRUIN.