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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 Magh 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,

      Their haughty images that cannot wither

      For all their beauty’s like a hollow dream,

      Mirrored in streams that neither hail nor rain

      Nor the cold North has troubled?’

      He replied:

      ‘I am from those rivers and I 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 hers 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,

      Half crazy with the thought, She too has wept!

      Outrun the measure.

      I’d tell of that great queen

      Who stood amid a silence by the thorn

      Until two lovers came out of the air

      With bodies made out of soft fire. The one,

      About whose face birds wagged their fiery wings,

      Said: ‘Aengus and his sweetheart give their thanks

      To Maeve and to Maeve’s household, owing all

      In owing them the bride-bed that gives peace.’

      Then Maeve: ‘O Aengus, Master of all lovers,

      A thousand years ago you held high talk

      With the first kings of many-pillared Cruachan.

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