Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948). The Second Book of Modern Verse. 1922.
The Dream of Aengus Og
W
And white on the hearth was last night’s flame,
Thither to me ’twixt sleeping and waking,
Singing out of the mists she came.
Were the eyes that on my eyes she laid,
And her hair’s red splendor through the shadows
Like to the marsh-fire gleamed and played.
That a man may only see in dreams,
The death-still, odorous, starlit spaces
Where Time is lost and no life gleams.
She stood with her still face bent on me,
Then forth with the Dawn departing drifted
Light as a foam-fleck on the sea.
That here no solace of rest may find,
Forevermore I follow and follow
Her white feet glancing down the wind.
(Oh, red lips yet shall I kiss you dumb!)
Twain sole words of that May morn’s singing,
Calling to me “Hither”! and “Come”!
Crying my steps when the Day has gone,
Till dim and small down the Night’s pale edges
The stars have fluttered one by one.
The hours skim past, while before me flies
That face of the Sun and Mist begotten,
Its singing lips and death-cold eyes.