I: THE CHANTERS
I
I stood on the Hill of Time when the sun was fled,
And my vision sought where to rest, till it knew the plains
Of my country, the Night's harp, and the moonless bed
Of rivers and bristling forests and sea-board chains.
II
And from many a chanter's mound—none is nameless there—
Could I hear, amid rumour eternal, the voice ascend.
With the bones of man endureth his floating hair,
And the song of his spirit on earth is slow to end.
III
Speak to me, speak to me, Fintan, dark in the south,
From the west Urmael, and Cir, lying under the pole,
Some chant that ye made, who never spake mouth to mouth,
But over the ridge of ages from soul to soul!
IV
And a strain came out of Dun Tulcha, the yew's shores,
From Fintan, the elder than yews, the too old for tears,
“Let us tell him of Deirdre wed, that his heart's doors
Resound, as when kings arrive, with the trees of spears.”
