"Etain," he murmured softly and wistfully,
With the soul's wakening wonder in his eyes,
"Is it not strange to think that there can be
"No end for ever and ever to those skies,
No shore beyond, or if there be a shore
Still without end the world beyond it lies;
"Think; think, Etain;" and all his faery lore
Mixed with the faith that brought all gods to birth
And sees new heavens transcend for evermore
The poor impossibilities of earth;
But Etain only laughed: the world to her
Was one sweet smile of very present mirth;
Its flowers were only flowers, common or rare;
Her soul was like a little garden closed
By rose-clad walls, a place of southern air Islanded from the Mystery that reposed
Its vast and brooding wings on that abyss
Through which like little clouds that dreamed and dozed
The thoughts of Anwyl wandered toward some bliss
Unknown, unfathomed, far, how far away,
Where God has gathered all the eternities
Into strange heavens, beyond the night and day.
VIII
And over the rolling golden bay,
In the funeral pomp of the dying day,
The bell of Time was wistfully tolling
A million million years away;
And over the heather-drowsy hill
Where the burdened bees were buzzing still,
The two little sun-bright barefoot children
Wandered down at the flowers' own will;
For still as the bell in the sunset tolled,
The meadow-sweet and the mary-gold
And the purple orchis kissed their ankles
And lured them over the listening wold.