Round about the couldron go:
In the poisones entrails throw.
When once I wished to drink some gin
It said "You must not quaff".
All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
When the siege and the assault had ceased at Troy, and the fortress fell in flame to firebrands
I sit beside the fire and think of all that I have seen, of meadow-flowers and butterflies in summers that have been;
Introduction.
Harp of the North! that mouldering long hast hung
Of Hector's deeds did Homer sing, And of the sack of stately Troy,
"The leaves were long, the grass was green,
The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,
Ye in the age gone by,
Who ruled the world--a world how lovely then!--
Yet, yet a moment, one dim ray of light
Indulge, dread Chaos, and eternal Night!
I
Korindabria, korindabria, bogarona, bogarona. Iwariniang
'Twas when the world was in its prime,
When the fresh stars had just begun
Everything is black and gold,
Black and gold, to-night:
Throned in splendor, immortal Aphrodite!
Child of Zeus, Enchantress, I implore thee
Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,
The moon is in the sky, and the stars are shining too,
The summer-night is calm, and the sea is very blue;
Why run the crowd? What means the throng
That rushes fast the streets along?
The world was young, the mountains green,
No stain yet on the Moon was seen,
As we came down the old boreen,
Rose and I – Rose and I,
"Are you deaf, Father William!" the young man said,
"Did you hear what I told you just now?
Once, in times forgotten,
In a fairy place,
Time rolls his ceaseless course. The race of yore, Who danced our infancy upon their knee,
I met a little Elf-man, once,
Down where the lilies blow.
He chanted a song of wizardry,
Of piercing, opening, of treachery,
LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,
Our Trojan world is polarised to mourn;
To dream and find a black spot on the sun,
And Something white and wavy
Was standing near me in the gloom
Two women loved a poet.
One was dark,
'Tis eve, the sun is sinking in the lake—
The lake, all glorious with his golden beams,
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