For the man dwelt in a lost land. Of boulders and broken men,In a great grey cave far off to south,Where a thick green forest stopped the mouth, Giving darkness in his den.
And the man was come like a shadow From the shadow of Druid trees,Where Usk, with mighty murmurings,Past Caerleon of the fallen kings, Goes out to ghostly seas.
Last of a race in ruin — He spoke the speech of the Gaels;His kin were in holy Ireland Or up in the crags of Wales.
But his soul stood with his mother's folk, That were of the rain-wrapped isleWhere Patrick and Brandan westerlyLooked out at last on a landless sea And the sun's last smile.
His harp was carved and cunning As the Celtic craftsman makes,Graven all over with twisting shapes Like many headless snakes.
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