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to be the mother of strong children;

       And she'd had lucky eyes and a high heart,

       And wisdom that caught fire like the dried flax,

       At need, and made her beautiful and fierce,

       Sudden and laughing.

      O unquiet heart,

       Why do you praise another, praising her,

       As if there were no tale but your own tale

       Worth knitting to a measure of sweet sound?.

       Have I not bid you tell of that great queen

       Who has been buried some two thousand years?.

       When night was at its deepest, a wild goose

       Cried from the porter’s lodge, and with long clamour

       Shook the ale horns and shields upon their hooks;

       But the horse-boys slept on, as though some power

       Had filled the house with Druid heaviness;

       ​And wondering who of the many changing Sidhe

       Had come as in the old times to counsel her,

       Maeve walked, yet with slow footfall being old,

       To that small chamber by the outer gate.

       The porter slept although he sat upright

       With still and stony limbs and open eyes.

       Maeve waited, and when that ear-piercing noise

       Broke from his parted lips and broke again,

       She laid a hand on either of his shoulders,

       And shook him wide awake, and bid him say

       Who of the wandering many-changing ones

       Had troubled his sleep. But all he had to say

       Was that, the air being heavy and the dogs

       More still than they had been for a good month,

       He had fallen asleep, and, though he had dreamed nothing,

       He could remember when he had had fine dreams.

       It was before the time of the great war

       Over the White-Horned Bull, and the Brown Bull.

       She turned away; he turned again to sleep

       That no god troubled now, and, wondering

       What matters were afoot among the Sidhe,

       Maeve walked through that great hall, and with a sigh

       Lifted the curtain of her sleeping room,

       Remembering that she too had seemed divine

       To many thousand eyes, and to her own

       One that the generations had long waited

       ​That work too difficult for mortal hands

       Might be accomplished. Bunching the curtain up

       She saw her husband Ailell sleeping there,

       And thought of days when he'd had a straight body,

       And of that famous Fergus, Nessa's husband,

       Who had been the lover of her middle life.

       Suddenly Ailell spoke out of his sleep,

       And not with his own voice or a man's voice,

       But with the burning, live, unshaken voice

       Of those that it may be can never age.

       He said 'High Queen of Cruachan and Mag Ai

       A king of the Great Plain would speak with you.'

       And with glad voice Maeve answered him 'What King

       Of the far wandering shadows has come to me?

       As in the old days when they would come and go

       About my threshold to counsel and to help.'

       The parted lips replied 'I seek your help,

       For I am Aengus and I am crossed in love.'

       'How may a mortal whose life gutters out

       Help them that wander with hand clasping hand

       By rivers where nor rain nor hail has dimmed

       Their haughty images, that cannot fade

       Although their beauty's like a hollow dream'

       'I come from the undimmed rivers to bid you call

       ​The children of the Maines out of sleep,

       And set them digging into Anbual's hill.

       We shadows, while they uproot his earthy house,

       Will overthrow his shadows and carry off

       Caer, his blue eyed daughter that I love.

       I helped your fathers when they built these walls

       And I would have your help in my great need,

       Queen of high Cruachan'.

      'I obey your will

       With speedy feet and a most thankful heart:

       For you have been, O Aengus of the birds

       Our giver of good counsel and good luck'.

       And with a groan, as if the mortal breath

       Could but awaken sadly upon lips

       That happier breath had moved, her husband turned

       Face downward, tossing in a troubled sleep;

       But Maeve, and not with a slow feeble foot,

       Came to the threshold of the painted house,

       Where her grandchildren slept, and cried aloud,

       Until the pillared dark began to stir

       With shouting and the clang of unhooked arms.

       She told them of the many-changing ones;

       And all that night, and all through the next day

       To middle night, they dug into the hill.

       At middle night great cats with silver claws,

       Bodies of shadow and blind eyes like pearls,

       ​Came up out of the hole, and red-eared hounds

       With long white bodies came out of the air

       Suddenly, and ran at them and harried them.

       The Maines' children dropped their spades, and stood

       With quaking joints and terror strucken faces,

       Till Maeve called out 'These are but common men.

       The Maines' children have not dropped their spades

       Because Earth crazy for its broken power

       Casts up a show and the winds answer it

       With holy shadows'. Her high heart was glad,

       And when the uproar ran along the grass

       She followed with light footfall in the midst,

       Till it died out where an old thorn tree stood.

       Friend of these many years, you too had stood

       With equal courage in that whirling rout;

       For you, although you've not her wandering heart,

       Have all that greatness, and not her's alone.

       For there is no high story about queens

       In any ancient book but tells of you,

       And when I've heard how they grew old and died

       Or fell into unhappiness I've said;

       'She will grow old and die and she has wept'!

       And when I'd write it out anew, the words,

      

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