AFTER FIONA McLEOD, W. B.
YEATS, AND OTHERS
THE CULT OF THE CELTIC
WHEN the eager squadrons of day are faint and disbanded,
And under the wind-swept stars the reaper gleans
The petulant passion flowers—although, to be candid,
I haven't the faintest notion what that means—
Surely the Snow-White Bird makes melody sweeter
High in the air than skimming the clogging dust.
(Yes, there's certainly something queer about this metre,
But, as it's Celtic, you and I must take it on trust.)