I HAVE no happiness in dreaming of Brycelinde, <br />Nor Avalon the grass-green hollow, nor Joyous Isle, <br />Where one found Lancelot crazed and hid him for a while; <br />Nor Uladh, when Naoise had thrown a sail upon the wind; <br />Nor lands that seem too dim to be burdens on the heart: <br />Land-under-Wave, where out of the moon's light and the sun's <br />Seven old sisters wind the threads of the long-lived ones, <br />Land-of-the-Tower, where Aengus has thrown the gates apart, <br />And Wood-of-Wonders, where one kills an ox at dawn, <br />To find it when night falls laid on a golden bier. <br />Therein are many queens like Branwen and Guinevere; <br />And Niamh and Laban and Fand, who could change to an otter or fawn, <br />And the wood-woman, whose lover was changed to a blue-eyed hawk; <br />And whether I go in my dreams by woodland, or dun, or shore, <br />Or on the unpeopled waves with kings to pull at the oar, <br />I hear the harp-string praise them, or hear their mournful talk. <br />Because of something told under the famished horn <br />Of the hunter's moon, that hung between the night and the day, <br />To dream of women whose beauty was folded in dis may, <br />Even in an old story, is a burden not to be borne.<br /><br />William Butler Yeats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/under-the-moon/
