Mongan Thinks of His Past Greatness
I have drunk ale from the Country of the YoungAnd weep because I know all things now:I have been a hazel tree and they hungThe Pilot Star and the Crooked PloughAmong my leaves in times out of mind:I became a rush that horses tread:I became a man, a hater of the wind,Knowing one, out of all things, alone, that his headWould not lie on the breast or his lips on the hairOf the woman that he loves, until he dies;Although the rushes and the fowl of the airCry of his love with their pitiful cries.
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