I spit into the face of time that has transfigured me

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.

Time drops in decay Like a candle burnt out. And the mountains and woods Have their day, have their day; But, kindly old rout Of the fire-born moods, You pass not away.

The light of lights looks always on the motive, not the deed, the shadow of shadows on the deed alone.

How can we know the dancer from the dance?

The winds that awakened the stars Are blowing through my blood.

Locke sank into a swoon; The Garden died; God took the spinning-jenny Out of his side.