It is still here, the magic and mystery:
it lingers in the heart of a people to whom their neighbors of
another world are frequent visitors in the spirit and over-shadowers
of reverie and imagination.
The earth here remembers her past, and to bring about its renewal
she whispers with honeyed entreaty and lures with bewitching glamour.
At this mountain I speak of it was that our greatest poet, the last
and most beautiful voice of Eire, first found freedom in song, so
he tells me: and it was the pleading for a return to herself that
this mysterious nature first fluted through his lips:
Come away, O human child,
To the Woods and waters wild
With a faery hand in hand:
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Away! yes, yes; to wander on and on under star-rich skies, ever
getting deeper into the net, the love that will not let us rest,
the peace above the desire of love. The village lights in heaven
and earth, each with their own peculiar hint of home, draw us hither
and thither, where it matters not, so the voice calls and the heart-
light burns.
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