A certain poet in outlandishes

    Gatine lane,

    talked1 of ry and its people, sang

    to some stringed instrument none there had seen,

    A wall behind his back, over his head

    A latticed  time

    As tened there, and his voice sank

    Or let its meaning mix into trings.

    MAEVE t queen o and fro,

    Beten bronze,

    In  Cruach,

    Flickering  half showed

    ired he rushes,

    Or on the walls,

    In comfortable sleep; all living slept

    But t great queen, w

    o fire and fire to door.

    though now in her old age, in her young age

    Siful in t old way

    ts all but gone; for t is gone,

    And t of ting-house fears all

    But Soft beauty and indolent desire.

    She world

    ever womans lover  her fancy,

    And yet -bodied and great-limbed,

    Faso be trong children;

    And s,

    And  caughe dried flax,

    At need, and made iful and fierce,

    Sudden and laughing.

    O unquiet ,

    her, praising her,

    As if tale but your oale

    ortting to a measure of s sound?

    bid you tell of t great queen

    housand years?

    its deepest, a wild goose

    Cried from ters lodge, and h long clamour

    Sheir hooks;

    But t on, as though some power

    h Druid heaviness;

    And wondering whe many-changing Sidhe

    imes to counsel her,

    Maeve  fall, being old,

    to t small cer gate.

    ter slept, alt upr