Only God, my dear, Could love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.

A daughter of a King of Ireland, heard A voice singing on a May Eve like this, And followed half awake and half asleep, Until she came into the Land of Faery, Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue. And she is still there, busied with a dance Deep in the dewy shadow of a wood, Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top.

The true poet is all the time a visionary and whether with friends or not, as much alone as a man on his death bed.

And God stands winding His lonely horn, And time and the world are ever in flight.

The true faith discovered was When painted panel, statuary, Glass-mosaic, window-glass, Amended what was told awry By some peasant gospeler.

And God, the herdsman, goads them on behind.

Like a long-legged fly upon the stream / His mind moves upon silence.