The Wedding Morning

Spread the feast, and let there be Such music heard as best beseems A king's son coming from the sea To wed a maiden of the streams.

Poets, pale for long ago, Bring sweet sounds from rock and flood, You by echo's accent know Where the water is and wood.

Harpers whom the moths of Time Bent and wrinkled dusty brown, Her chains are falling with a chime, Sweet as bells in Heaven town.

But, harpers, leave your harps aside, And, poets, leave awhile your dreams. The storm has come upon the tide And Cathleen weeps among her streams.