That woke, and stretched its arms, and smiled.
What chanced her labours to destroy,
She never knew; and sought in vain
If Were her own misshapen boy,
Or little Gwion, born again:
And, vext with doubt, the babe she rolled
In cloth of purple and of gold,
And in a coracle consigned
Its fortunes to the sea and wind.
The summer night was still and bright,