You play me, Alan, Highland airs, that hold
From thirty centuries pain and love and fear.
And, as you play, the known walls disappear;
I take from you a sea-wind, salt and cold;
I see, through mist of blown spray, fold on fold
Of lordly coast, and shrill birds, hovering near
Over the sobbing backwash; and I hear
The old sea-rhythm swaying with runes untold.
And look! the White Barge comes. By cliff and sound,
Gathering souls, from port to port it plies
Off coast and welcoming island. I hear sung
Their ghostly happiness, in whose pure eyes
Like wetted weed youth shines. For they are bound
For Tir-nan-Og, the Island of the Young.