Edain

You were still wrecked among heathen dreams.

Why do you wind no horn, she said, and every hero droop his head? the hornless deer is not more sad that many a peaceful moment had more sleek than any granary mouse in his own leafy forest-house among the waving fields of fern the hunting of heroes should be glad o pleasant woman answered finn we think on oscar's pencilled urn and on the hero's lying slang on gabra's rave and covered playing but where are your noble kith and kin and from what country do you ride My father and my mother are, Angus and Edain, my own name.

I am, in my country far, beyond the tumbling of this tide.

What dream came with you that you came, through bitter tide on foam-wet feet? Did your companion wander away, from where the birds of Angus wing? Thereon did she look haughty and sweet.

remember, sick with years, The swift innumerable spears, The horsemen with their floating hair, And bowls of barley, honey and wine, Those merry couples dancing in tune, And the white body that lay by mine, At the tail, though words be lighter than air, Must live to be old like the wandering moon.

Caelty and Conan and Finn were there When we followed a deer with our baying hounds, With Bran, Sceolan and Lomere, And passing the fir-bogs, burial mounds, Came to the carn-heaped grassy hill Where passionate Maeve is stony still, And found on the dove-grey edge of the sea A pearl-pale high-born lady who rode on a horse with bridle of vindrini and like a sunset were her lips a stormy sunset on doomed ships a citron colour gloomed in her hair but down to her feet white vesture flowed and with the glimmering crimson glowed of many a figured embroidery and it was bound with a pearl-pale shell that wavered like the summer streams as her soft bosom rose and fell you are still wrecked among heathen dreams why do you wind no horn she said and every hero drip his head the hornless deer is not more sad that many a peaceful moment had more sleek than any granary mouse in his own leafy forest-house among the waving fields of fern the hunting of heroes should be glad o pleasant woman answered finn we think on oscar's pencilled urn and on the hero's lying slang on gabra's rave and covered playing but where are your noble kith and kin and from what country do you ride My father and my mother are, Angus and Edain, my own name.

I am, in my country far, beyond the tumbling of this tide.

What dream came with you that you came, through bitter tide on foam-wet feet? Did your companion wander away, from where the birds of Angus wing? Thereon did she look haughty and sweet.