Produced by Carrie Lorenz. Special thanks to John B. Hare, redactor
for this text and significant contributor to its preparation for PG.
by
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 host is riding from Knocknarea,
And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare;
Caolte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling, "Away, come away;
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart,
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
We come between him and the hope of his heart."
The host is rushing 'twixt night and day;
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caolte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling, "Away, come away."
I have desired, like every artist, to create a little world out of thebeautiful, pleasant, and significant things of this marred and clumsyworld, and to show in a vision something of the face of Ireland to anyof my own people who would look where I bid them. I have thereforewritten down accurately and candidly much that I have heard and seen,and, except by way of commentary, nothing that I have merely imagined.I have, however, been at no pains to separate my own beliefs from thoseof the peasantry, but have rather let my men and women, dhouls andfaeries, go their way unoffended or defended by any argument of mine.The things a man has heard and seen are threads of life, and if he pullthem carefully from the confused distaff of memory, any who will canweave them into whatever garments of belief please them best. I toohave woven my garment like another, but I shall try to keep warm in it,and shall be well content if it do not unbecome me.
Hope and Memory have one daughter and her name is Art, and she hasbuilt her dwelling far from the desperate field where men hang outtheir garments upon forked boughs to be banners of battle. O beloveddaughter of Hope and Memory, be with me for a little.
1893.
I have added a few more chapters in the manner of the old ones, andwould have added others, but one loses, as one grows older, somethingof the lightness of one's dreams; one begins to take life up in bothhands, and to care more for the fruit than the flower, and that is nogreat loss per haps. In these new chapters, as in the old ones, I haveinvented nothing but my comments and one or two deceitful sentencesthat may keep some poor story-teller's commerce with the devil and hisangels, or the like, from being known among his neighbours. I shallpublish in a little while a big book about the commonwealth of faery,and shall try to make it systematical and learned enough to buy pardonfor this handful of dreams.
1902.
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