One time Bran, son of Febal, was out by himself near his dun, and he
heard music behind him. And it kept always after him, and at last he
fell asleep with the sweetness of the sound. And when he awoke from
his sleep he saw beside him a branch of silver, and it having white
blossoms, and the whiteness of the silver was the same as the whiteness
of the blossoms. And he brought the branch in his hand into the royal
house, and when all his people were with him they saw a woman with
strange clothing standing in the house. And she began to make a song
for Bran, and all the people were looking at her and listening to her,
and it is what she said: I bring a branch of the apple-tree from
Emhain, from the far island around which are the shining horses of
the Son of Lir. A delight of the eyes is the plain where the hosts
hold their games: curragh racing against chariot in the Silver-White
Plain to the south.
There are feet of white bronze under it, shining through life and time;
a comely level land through the length of the world’s age, and many
blossoms falling on it.
There is an old tree there with blossoms, and birds calling from among
them; every colour is shining there. Delight is common, and music in
the Gentle Voiced Plain, in the Silver Cloud Plain to the south. There
is nothing hard or rough, but sweet music striking on the ear; keening
is not used, or treachery, in the tilled familiar land.
To be without grief, without sorrow, without death, without any
sickness, without weakness; that is the sign of Emhain; it is not a
common wonder that is.
There is nothing to liken its mists to, the sea washes the wave against
the land; brightness falls from its hair.
Golden chariots in the Plain of the Sea, rising up to the sun with
the tide; silver chariots and bronze chariots on the Plain of Sports.
It is a day of lasting weather, silver is dropping on the land; a pure
white cliff on the edge of the sea, getting its warmth from the sun.
The host race over the Plain of Sports; it is beautiful and not weak
their game is; death or the ebbing of the tide will not come to them
in the Many-coloured Land.
There will come at sunrise a fair man, lighting up the level lands;
he rides upon the plain that is beaten by the waves, he stirs the sea
till it is like blood. An army will come over the clear sea, rowing
to the stone that is in sight, that has a hundred sounds of music.
It sings a song to the army; it is not sad through the length of time;
it increases music with hundreds singing together; they do not look
for death or the ebb-tide.
(Lady Augusta Gregory)
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Based on Topics: Man Poems, World Poems, Sadness Poems, Time Poems, Death & Dying Poems, Fairness Poems, Sense & Perception Poems, Sons Poems, Woman Poems, Hair Poems, People PoemsBased on Keywords: silver-white, ebb-tide, lir, curragh