Page:Selections from Ancient Irish Poetry - Meyer.djvu/78

 SUMMER IS GONE

My tidings for you: the stag bells, Winter snows, summer is gone.

Wind high and cold, low the sun, Short his course, sea running high.

Deep-red the bracken, its shape all gone— The wild-goose has raised his wonted cry.

Cold has caught the wings of birds; Season of ice—these are my tidings.