This Poor Man... How is he ? Is he me ? Or some one else ? Fantasy ? Yes, perhaps...

Because there was disquiet in the wind
And sound of old griefs in the beating rain,
Sad echo of erstwhile afflicted rhymes
turning their tunes unceasing through his soul;

Because the far sea's roar on a quiet night
Related virtue of the lost generations,
And because trilling streams
Awoke the entire anguish of their passion -
Like one mute he went to a phantom silence,
And one by one all his companions fled,
Leaving him rapt in his mysterious secret,
To the strange voices listening alone.

Where his companions had invoked God's anger
On an unclean world, he saw its beauty,
Refused their path to heaven, took instead
The insubstantial echo of magic pipes,

The murmuring bees of Arawn from the vineyards
Heavy with honeydew from down the vale,
The nectar of hidden dwellings,
Cear Siddi's gold enclosure on the hill.
Before he died, banquets were his to sit at,
He listed entranced to the unseen choir -
the birds of Rhiannon in the porches of pearl
That open on the old forgetful sea...