I sat on cushioned otter-skin：

    My word was law from Ith to Emain，

    And shook at Invar Amargin

    The hearts of the world-troubling seamen，

    And drove tumult and war away

    From girl and boy and man and beast；

    The fields grew fatter day by day，

    The wild fowl of the air increased；

    And every ancient Ollave said，

    While he bent down his fading head，

    ‘He drives away the Northern cold.’

    They will not hush， the leaves a-flutter round me， the beech leaves old.

    I sat and mused and drank sweet wine；

    A herdsman came from inland valleys，

    Crying， the pirates drove his swine

    To fill their dark-beaked hollow galleys.

    I called my battle-breaking men

    And my loud brazen battle-cars

    From rolling vale and rivery glen；

    And under the blinking of the stars

    Fell on the pirates by the deep，

    And hurled them in the gulph of sleep：

    These hands won many a torque of gold.

    They will not hush， the leaves a-flutter round me， the beech leaves old.

    But slowly， as I shouting slew

    And trampled in the bubbling mire，

    In my most secret spirit grew

    A whirling and a wandering fire：

    I stood： keen stars above me shone，

    Around me shone keen eyes of men：

    I laughed aloud and hurried on

    By rocky shore and rushy fen；

    I laughed because birds fluttered by，

    And starlight gleamed， and clouds flew high，

    And rushes waved and waters rolled.

    They will not hush， the leaves a-flutter round me， the beech leaves old.

    And now I wander in the woods

    When summer gluts the golden bees，

    Or in autumnal solitudes

    Arise the leopard-coloured trees；

    Or when along the wintry strands

    The cormorants shiver on their rocks；

    I wander on， and wave my hands，

    And sing， and shake my heavy locks.

    The grey wolf knows me； by one ear

    I lead along the woodland deer；

    The hares run by me growing bold.

    They will not hush， the leaves a-flutter round me， the beech leaves old.

    I came upon a little town

    That slumbered in the harvest moon，

    And passed a-tiptoe up and down，

    Murmuring， to a fitful tune，

    How I have followed， night and day，

    A tramping of tremendous feet，

    And saw where this old tympan lay

    Deserted on a doorway seat，

    And bore it to the woods with me；

    Of some inhuman misery

    Our married voices wildly trolled.

    They will not hush， the leaves a-flutter round me， the beech leaves old.

    I sang how， when day‘s toil is done，

    Orchil shakes out her long dark hair

    That hides away the dying sun

    And sheds faint odours through the air：

    When my hand passed from wire to wire

    It quenched， with sound like falling dew，

    The whirling and the wandering fire；

    But lift a mournful ulalu，

    For the kind wires are torn and still，

    And I must wander wood and hill

    Through summer‘s heat and winter’s cold.

    They will not hush， the leaves a-flutter round me， the beech leaves old.