The celtic spiral

The Shadow House of Lugh

Dream-fair beside dream waters, it stands alone:
A winged thought of Lugh made its corner stone:
A desire of his heart raised its walls on high:
And set its crystal windows to flaunt the sky.

Its doors of white bronze are many and bright,
With wondrous carven pillars for his loves delight,
And its roof of the blue wings, the speckled red,
Is a flaming arc of beauty above her head.

Like a mountain through mist Lugh towers high'
The fiery forked lightening is the glance of his eye,
His countenance is noble as the Sun-gods face-
The proudest he of a proud De Dannon race.

He bids there in peace now, his wars are all done-
He gave his hand to Balor when the death gate was won,
And for the strife scarred heroes who wander in the shade,
His door lieth open, and the rich feast is laud.

He hath no vexing memory of blood in slanting rain,
Of green spears in hedges on a battle plain;
But through the haunted quiet his Love's silver words
Blow round him swift as wing-beats of enchanted birds.

A grey haunted wind is blowing in the hall,
And stirring through the shadowy spears on the wall,
The drinking-horn goes round from lip to shadowy lip-
And about te golden methers shadowy fingers slip.

The Star of Beauty, She who queens it there;
Diademed, and wondrous long her yellow hair.
Her eyes are twin moons in a rose sweet face,
And the fragrance of her presence fills all the place.

He plays for her pleasure on his harps gold wire
The laughter tune that leaps along in trills of fire;
She hears the dancing feet of Sidhe where a white moon gleams;
and all her world is joy in the House of Dreams.

He plays for her soothing the Slumber song;
Fine and faint as any dream it glides along;
She sleep until the magic of his kiss shall rouse;
And all her world is quiet in the shadow house.

His days glide to night and his nights glide to day;
With circling of amber mead, and feasting gay;
In the yellow of her hair his dreams lie curled,
And her arms make the rim of his rainbow world.

Anonymous, Irish 8th century
Translated by Ethna Carbery

I invoke the spirit of Ireland,
Much-coursed be the fertile sea,
Fertile be the fruit strewn mountains,
Fruit strewn be the showery wood,
Showery be the river of water-falls,
Of water-falls be the lake of deep pools,
Deep-pooled be the hill-top well,
A well of tribes be the assembly,
An assembly of kings be Tara,
Tara be the hill of the tribes,
The tribes be the sons of Mil,
Of Mil of the ships, the barks,
Let the lofty bark be Ireland,
Lofty Ireland, darkly sung,
An incantation of great cunning;
The great cunning of the wives of Bres,
the wives of Bres of Buaigne;
The great lady Ireland,Eremon hath conquered her,
Ir, Eber have invoked for her,
I invoke the land of Ireland.