Aye, ‘tis so gentle Lady!

And look ever forward
as thy past be done.
It fadeth as ever
Be the setting sun.

True love found
A gem indeed,
It lasts always
As the growing seed.

‘Tis not a dream
That I do write.
And This I know,
And with all my might.

For this be so
Actions do be loud
And not of words
Behidden in clouds

The wood with echoes does abound,
Of the somber pipe, the sylvan sound,
The beat of the bodran, the shrill of the pipe,
The spinning, frenzied dance of the endless night.

Listen!

And far ahead, by yonder tree,
My lady fair doth wait for me.

And I shall take her by the hand,
And lead her to the wooded strand,
Where we shall tarry, her and I,
And gaze into the brilliant sky.

The night was for the dreamer made,
I walk in darkness, unafraid,
For though an idle dream may never come to pass,
I savor it while youth’s fond whims may last.