Epigraph
‘There through the branches go the ravens
of unresting thought.’
—W. B. Yeats.
Fiona Macleod
Who plays the Song of Songs upon the Hills of Dream? It is said Love is that need-player, for There is no song like his.
But today I saw one, on these still garths of shadow and silence, who put a hollow reed to his lips and played a white spell of beauty. Then I knew Love and Sorrow to be one, as in the old myth of Oengus of the White Birds and The Grey Shadows.
(F. M.)
Indian Saying