Classic Poem

Better than book of mine could be
Is this, where all enchantments blend,
This book of Celtic phantasy,
Made by the faeries and my friend.

A poet here will joy to find
The sorrow of the ancient seas;
The wailing of the wistful wind,
And all fair, strange things like to these.

The fire and dew of Irish dreams
Shine here within a twilight pale:
And in the magic twilight gleams
The secret soul of Inisfail.