THE HARP OF AENGUS

Edain came out of Midher’s hill, and lay

Beside young Aengus in his tower of glass,

Where time is drowned in odour-laden winds

And druid moons, and murmuring of boughs,

And sleepy boughs, and boughs where apples made

Of opal and ruby and pale chrysolite

Awake unsleeping fires; and wove seven strings,

Sweet with all music, out of his long hair,