Ceol-Sidhe

There never was any music 
In the golden throat of a bird, 
More fine and clear than the piping 
That in dreams I heard 
Cry through the Heart Lake's rushes, 
And falter and fade away, 
Like odours of thyme one crushes 
In the heat of the day. 

There never was any piping 
So sweet and tender and gay, 
It came like the wind, and lightly 
It blew away — 
It laughed and it grew not weary, 
It sighed and was sweeter yet, 
It sang for the hope of Eri 
And her heavy fret. 

There never was any piping 
So merry and none so sad, 
For it sang of a far green island 
Where, scarlet-clad, 
All under the druid quicken, 
Wild dancers gather and go, 
And under the oaks, unstricken, 
Feeds Saav, the doe. 

And when silence took the piping, 
"It's O to be there," I cried, 
"To dance with no thought of grieving 
For joy that died — 
To dance, and be never weary 
For night or day, 
With the kindliest folk of Eri 
Till the dew's away. 
Sweet, sweet is the twilight dancing, 
Not sweet is the homespun day." 
But the dawn through the rushes glancing 
Drove my dream away.