I have no happiness in dreaming of Brycelinde，

    Nor Avalon the grass-green hollow， nor Joyous¹ Isle²，

    Where one found Lancelot crazed and hid him for a while；

    Nor Ulad， when Naoise had thrown a sail upon the wind；

    Nor lands that seem too dim to be burdens on the heart：

    Land-under-Wave， where out of the moon‘s light and the sun’s

    Seven old sisters wind the threads of the long-lived ones，

    Land-of- the-Tower， where Aengus has thrown the gates apart，

    And Wood-of-Wonders， where one kills an ox at dawn，

    To find it when night falls laid on a golden bier.

    Therein are many queens like Branwen and Guinevere；

    And Niamh and Laban and Fand， who could change to an otter³ or fawn⁴，

    And the wood-woman， whose lover was changed to a blue-eyed hawk⁵；

    And whether I go in my dreams by woodland， or dun， or shore，

    Or on the unpeopled waves with kings to pull at the oar⁶，

    I hear the harp-string praise them， or hear their mournful talk.

    Because of something told under the famished⁷ horn

    Of the hunter‘s moon， that hung between the night and the day，

    To dream of women whose beauty was folded in dismay，

    Even in an old story， is a burden not to be borne.

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