The Harp of Aengus

Edain came out of Midher’s hill, and lay Beside young Aengus in his tower of glass, Where time is drowned in odour-laden winds And druid moons, and murmuring of boughs, And sleepy boughs, and boughs where apples made Of opal and ruby and pale chrysolite Awake unsleeping fires; and wove seven strings, Sweet with all music, out of his long hair, Because her hands had been made wild by love; When Midher’s wife had changed her to a fly, He made a harp with druid apple wood That she among her winds might know he wept; And from that hour he has watched over none But faithful lovers.