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- THE MAN WHO DREAMED OF FAERYLAND
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- HE stood among a crowd at Dromahair;
- His heart hung all upon a silken dress,
- And he had known at last some tenderness,
- Before earth took him to her stony care;
- But when a man poured fish into a pile,
- It Seemed they raised their little silver heads,
- And sang what gold morning or evening sheds
- Upon a woven world-forgotten isle
- Where people love beside the ravelled seas;
- That Time can never mar a lover's vows
- Under that woven changeless roof of boughs:
- The singing shook him out of his new ease.
- He wandered by the sands of Lissadell;
- His mind ran all on money cares and fears,
- And he had known at last some prudent years
- Before they heaped his grave under the hill;
- But while he passed before a plashy place,
- A lug-worm with its grey and muddy mouth
- Sang that somewhere to north or west or south
- There dwelt a gay, exulting, gentle race
- Under the golden or the silver skies;
- That if a dancer stayed his hungry foot
- It seemed the sun and moon were in the fruit:
- And at that singing he was no more wise.
- He mused beside the well of Scanavin,
- He mused upon his mockers: without fail
- His sudden vengeance were a country tale,
- When earthy night had drunk his body in;
- But one small knot-grass growing by the pool
- Sang where -- unnecessary cruel voice --
- Old silence bids its chosen race rejoice,
- Whatever ravelled waters rise and fall
- Or stormy silver fret the gold of day,
- And midnight there enfold them like a fleece
- And lover there by lover be at peace.
- The tale drove his fine angry mood away.
- He slept under the hill of Lugnagall;
- And might have known at last unhaunted sleep
- Under that cold and vapour-turbaned steep,
- Now that the earth had taken man and all:
- Did not the worms that spired about his bones
- proclaim with that unwearied, reedy cry
- That God has laid His fingers on the sky,
- That from those fingers glittering summer runs
- Upon the dancer by the dreamless wave.
- Why should those lovers that no lovers miss
- Dream, until God burn Nature with a kiss?
- The man has found no comfort in the grave.
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