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 moons light and the suns
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 hunters 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.
