Page:Fragments of Ancient Poetry.djvu/82



, thou fairest of women, daughter of Cormac-Carbre! why in the circle of stones, in the cave of the rock, alone? The stream murmureth hoarsely. The blast groaneth in the aged tree. The lake is troubled before thee. Dark are the clouds of the sky! But thou art like snow on the heath. Thy hair like a thin cloud of gold on the top of Cromleach. Thy breasts