Etain the Beloved and Other Poems

I Strong in the strength that finds in gentleness A way to peace, King Eochaidh on the throne Of Erin sits. Around his footstool press Clansmen and chiefs. Some wind of thought has blown Their eyes to flame. Some purpose, in the stress Of travailing tongues, to birth finds not a way: What all would utter, none has wit to say. Into their midst one came, an agéd bard Upon whose flowing hair Wisdom had laid Her gift of silver. On those faces, scarred From old forgotten fights, he looked, and weighed The meaning in their eyes, though sorely marred; And from the tangled fibre of their thought Into the web of speech their purpose wrought. "Thy word, O King, has passed by hill and dale Throughout all Erin, bidding to the Feast Of Tara all thy people, with the tale Of tribute due from greatest and from least. Nor should this word than others less prevail, But that the herald-spear thy will hath sent, Against the shield of custom has been bent. "Thou knowest, O King, that from most ancient years No chieftain wifeless rules for thee the land, Nor mateless at a festival appears; But fixed in all experience doth stand: And thus, made master of all human fears, Fears not, but strongly round the camp-fires goes, Full sharer of thy people's joys and woes. "Equal in yoke and honour, as the day And night, that are but breathings of the soul, They on life's crooked journey take their way Diverse in gift, in essence one and whole.