Many times since this, my twelfth rebirth on earth, Have I seen the mistletoe grow green on the oak, Seen the yellow crocus, the sunbright, and the vervein Bloom again in the woodlands:
But never shall I see again the white-robed Druid of old Seek the sacred mistletoe as one seeketh a treasure; Never more shall I see him cut the living plant With his golden sickle.
Alas! the valiant chiefs with the flowing locks! All sleep in the cairns, beneath the fresh green grass; In vain my voice o’er the fields of the dead lamenting-- “Vengeance! Treason!
“Be swift, Revenge, on the feet of the sorrows of Arvor!” Alas, dull echoes alone answer my wailing summons. Treason, indeed, and Vengeance! for lo, in the hallowed Némèdes The wayside flaunt of the Cross!
Tarann no longer sends forth his terror of thunder! Camul no longer laughs behind the strength of his arm! Tentatès, rising in wrath, has not yet crumbled the earth; Esus is deaf to our call!
Whither, O whither fled are ye, ye powerful, redoubtable gods; And ye, ye famous Druids, the glory and terror of Armor? Who has usurped, who has o’erwhelmed ye, unconquerable knights, Warriors of the golden collar?
Thou, who harkenest, I have been in the place of the Ancients! I, alone among mortals, thence have issued alive: Alas, the temple was deserted: I saw nought but some wind-haunted oaks Swaying in the silence.
All is fugitive! pride, pleasure, the song, the dance, Blithe joys of friendship, noble rivalries all: The keen swift song of the swords, the whistling lances! Dreams of a dreamer all!... But no,
A new dawn wakes and laughs on the breast of the darkness; Earth has her sunshine still, the grave her Spring; Many a time Dylan hath oared me afar in the deathbarque, Many a death-sleep mine, and long!
For long I have slept with the heavy sleep of the dead, Ofttimes my fugitive body has passed into divers forms, I have spread strong wings on the air, I have swum in dark waters, I have crawled in the woods.
But, amid all these manifold changes, my soul Remaineth ever the same: it is always, always “myself”! And now I see well that this is the law of all that liveth, Though none beholdeth the reason, none the end.
Still stand our lonely menhirs, and still the wayfarer shudders As in the desolate dusk he passes these Stones of Silence! Thou speakest, I understand! Thy Breton tongue Is that of the ancient Kymry.