Thither, accordingly, the four swans flew on the morrow. It was with joy that they left the sea of the Moyle, where they had known so much privation and misery; but little cause had they for joy, for not less bleak were the skies, not less desolate the coasts, not less wild the storm-lashed, rain-swept seas, off the lifeless, barren isle of Glora. The great waves of the shoreless western ocean beat upon it for ever, and their thunder often filled the darkness for countless leagues with a sound most dreadful to hear. But after many years it chanced that a young man, named Ebric, the son of a Dedannan lord, came to farm a tract of land lying along the shore of Irros Domnann. This youth, who was a poet, and loved all beautiful things, soon cared more for the sweet, wonderful singing of the four swans, which often he heard, and to see their white bodies glistening in the sun, than to till his land. One day Fionula and her brothers descried him. Flying to the shore, they called, and great was his wonder to hear the dear familiar Gaelic speech in the mouths of wild swans. From that time he walked daily down to the extreme rocks on the shore, that he might converse with the children of Lir, and hear all they had to tell of their sad story; though he, on his part, could relate little to them of what had happened, or was happening further inland in Erin, though they heard from him with sorrow that the Milesians were now mightier than the Dedannans, and that the Fairy Host was no longer able to withstand the might of these enemies who long since had come out of the south. “For,” he said, “it is the way of what is beautiful and wonderful; that the wonder passes and the beauty fades.” That night he heard Fionula singing, and knew that the burden of her song was no other than the saying he had uttered: Dim face of Beauty haunting all the world, Fair face of Beauty all too fair to see, Where the lost stars adown the heavens are hurled, There, there alone for thee May white peace be. For here where all the dreams of men are whirled Like sere torn leaves of autumn to and fro, There is no place for thee in all the world, Who driftest as a star, Beyond, afar. Beauty, sad face of Beauty, Mystery, Wonder, What are these dreams to foolish babbling men -- Who cry with little noises ’neath the thunder Of ages ground to sand, To a little sand. Ebric moved homeward through the moonlight wondering much at that song of Fionula. But because he was a poet, he understood.