The silence throbbed with trumpets, tumultuous, elate,
And you, a flower of wonder, bloomed in the castle gate.
You made the flush of sunset seem but a pallid thing;
Your voice had all the rapture that trembles through the spring.
Within your eyes the love-light was glory after drouth;
All summer’s hoarded honey was one kiss from your mouth.
Deirdre, whose tragic beauty the great Cuchullin knew,
And Maeve, the long lamented, sooth, what were they to you!
[p 50]
]In through the rush-strewn hallway you led us to the feast;
And when the wine was drunken there stood the stolèd priest.