They looked at themselves in the old light,
        And mourned the days of the new
Where naught is but darkness or cold light,
        Till a bell came striking through.

“We must go,” said the wise young sages: 
        It was five at dawn by the chimes,
And they ran through a thousand ages
        From the old De Danaan Times.

—­August 15, 1896

The Palaces of the Sidhe

Two small sweet lives together
        From dawn till the dew falls down,
They danced over rock and heather
        Away from the dusty town.

Dark eyes like stars set in pansies,
        Blue eyes like a hero’s bold—­
Their thoughts were all pearl-light fancies,
        Their hearts in the age of gold.

They crooned o’er many a fable
        And longed for the bright-capped elves,
The faery folk who are able
        To make us faery ourselves.

A hush on the children stealing
        They stood there hand in hand,
For the elfin chimes were pealing
        Aloud in the underland.

And over the grey rock sliding,
        A fiery colour ran,
And out of its thickness gliding
        The twinkling mist of a man—­

To-day for the children had fled to
        An ancient yesterday,
And the rill from its tunnelled bed too
        Had turned another way.

Then down through an open hollow
        The old man led with a smile: 
“Come, star-hearts, my children, follow
        To the elfin land awhile.”

The bells above them were hanging,
        Whenever the earth-breath blew
It made them go clanging, clanging,
        The vasty mountain through.

But louder yet than the ringing
        Came the chant of the elfin choir,
Till the mountain was mad with singing
        And dense with the forms of fire.

The kings of the faery races
        Sat high on the thrones of might,
And infinite years from their faces
        Looked out through eyes of light.

And one in a diamond splendour
        Shone brightest of all that hour,
More lofty and pure and tender,
        They called him the Flower of Power.

The palace walls were glowing
        Like stars together drawn,
And a fountain of air was flowing
        The primrose colour of dawn.

“Ah, see!” said Aileen sighing,
        With a bend of her saddened head
Where a mighty hero was lying,
        He looked like one who was dead.

“He will wake,” said their guide, “’tis but seeming,
        And, oh, what his eyes shall see
I will know of only in dreaming
        Till I lie there still as he.”

They chanted the song of waking,
        They breathed on him with fire,
Till the hero-spirit outbreaking,
        Shot radiant above the choir.