onsidered one of the
sacred places in Eire, no glittering tradition hangs about it as a lure
and indeed I would not have it considered as one in any special sense
apart from its companions, but I take it here as a type of what any high
place in nature may become for us if well loved; a haunt of deep peace,
a spot where the Mother lays aside veil after veil, until at last the
great Spirit seems in brooding gentleness to be in the boundless fields
alone. I am not inspired by that brotherhood which does not overflow
with love into the being of the elements, not hail in them the same
spirit as that which calls us with so many pathetic and loving voices
from the lives of men. So I build my dream cabin in hope of its wider
intimacy:

A cabin on the mountain side hid in a grassy nook,
With door and windows open wide, where friendly stars may look;
The rabbit shy can patter in; the winds may enter free
Who throng around the mountain throne in living ecstasy.
And when the sun sets dimmed in eve and purple fills the air,
I think the sacred Hazel Tree is dropping berries there
From starry fruitage waved aloft where Connla's well o'er-flows:
For sure the immortal waters pour through every wind that blows.
I think when night towers up aloft and shakes the trembling dew,
How every high and lonely thought that thrills my being through
Is but a shining berry dropped down through the purple air,
And from the magic tree of life the fruit falls everywhere.

The Sacred Hazel was the Celtic branch of the Tree of Life; its scarlet
nuts gave wisdom and inspiration; and fed on this ethereal fruit, the
ancient Gael grew to greatness. Though today none eat of the fruit or
drink the purple flood welling from Connla's fountain, I think that the
fire which still kindles the Celtic races was flashed into their blood
in that magical time, and is our heritage from the Druidic past. It is
still here, the magic and mystery: it lingers in the heart of a people
to whom their neighbors of another world are frequent visitors in the
spirit and over-shadowers of reverie and imagination.

The earth here remembers her past, and to bring about its renewal she
whispers with honeyed entreaty and lures with bewitching glamour. At
this mountain I speak of it was that our greatest poet, the last and
most beautiful voice of Eire, first found freedom in song, so he tells
me: and it was the pleading for a