A distant sense of Aengus ÓgNo more than knowledge of this godIs brought to bear upon my mind
And yet I hear a nearer sound:A harp elusive on the windSo close that I can hear the strings
Could it be for me they singLike birds in the early summer dawnOr the sigh of wind through bending grasses,
Or do I merely hear what passesOn the breeze for others to perceive?Perhaps, but then a listening ear
Is also there, a curious stareWondering who might be hoveringAt the edges of the whispered speech
And so I wait a turn to speakAnd, if invited, say my pieceAs yet unsure how to approach this god.