THE MADNESS OF KING GOLL

I SAT on cushioned otter-skin:

My word was law from Ith to Emain,

And shook at Inver Amergin

The hearts of the world-troubling seamen, And drove tumult and war away

From girl and boy and man and beast; The fields grew fatter day by day,

The wild fowl of the air increased; And every ancient Ollave said, While he bent down his fading head. 'He drives away the Northern cold.'

They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the beech leaves old.

I sat and mused and drank sweet wine; A herdsman came from inland valleys, Crying, the pirates drove his swine

To fill their dark-beaked hollow galleys. I called my battle-breaking men

And my loud brazen battle-cars From rolling vale and rivery glen; And under the blinking of the stars Fell on the pirates by the deep,

And hurled them in the gulph of sleep: These hands won many a torque of gold.

They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the beech leaves old.

But slowly, as I shouting slew

And trampled in the bubbling mire, In my most secret spirit grew

A whirling and a wandering fire:

I stood: keen stars above me shone, Around me shone keen eyes of men: I laughed aloud and hurried on

By rocky shore and rushy fen;

I laughed because birds fluttered by,

And starlight gleamed, and clouds flew high, And rushes waved and waters rolled.

They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the beech leaves old.

And now I wander in the woods

When summer gluts the golden bees, Or in autumnal solitudes

Arise the leopard-coloured trees; Or when along the wintry strands

The cormorants shiver on their rocks; I wander on, and wave my hands, And sing, and shake my heavy locks. The grey wolf knows me; by one ear I lead along the woodland deer;

The hares run by me growing bold.

They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the Beech leaves old.

I came upon a little town

That slumbered in the harvest moon, And passed a-tiptoe up and down, Murmuring, to a fitful tune,

How I have followed, night and day, A tramping of tremendous feet, And saw where this old tympan lay Deserted on a doorway seat,

And bore it to the woods with me; Of some inhuman misery

Our married voices wildly trolled.

They will not hush, ta leaves a-flutter round me, the beech leaves old.

I sang how, when day's toil is done, Orchil shakes out her long dark hair That hides away the dying sun

And sheds faint odours through the air: When my hand passed from wire to wire It quenched, with sound like falling dew The whirling and the wandering fire;

But lift a mournful ulalu,

For the kind wires are torn and still, And I must wander wood and hill

Through summer's heat and winter's cold.

        They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the beech leaves old.