“The high cold waterfall

Longs for the warm pool

Drops into it as into a bed

This love knows itself well

◇

Swallows link hill to hill

Their flight is worth long study

The stammering quagmire utters itself

Stubbornly

◇

The bog comes into its own

Host to cuckoo and hare

If a boy is not strong now

He’ll never be a warrior

◇

Men flourish like wheat

Women are proud as fields

All things hope to be perfect

I begin to believe in peace”

– Anonymous, from “Song of Summer,” tr. Brendan Kennelly (Irish)