In simple days before the gods were old A bishop left the warring forest bands, And on the beach there grew beneath his hands A silver coracle with oars of gold; It bore him where the sea and sky enfold Long dewy marges of the moon-white lands, A mist of stars around those dreaming strands Lifted a moment that he might behold. Then swifter than the wind a shaft of fire Fled from the quivering bow-strings of his heart, To find the ever-hidden entrance there; And now in answer to a saint's desire The island waits, held by that flaming dart, Upon the burnished edges of the air. |