within it, and through the archaic rudeness of these legends the
light shines as sunlight through the hoary branches of ancient oaks.
Lady Gregory has done her work, as compiler with a judgment which
could hardly be too much praised, and she has translated the stories
into an idiom which is a reflection of the original Gaelic and is
full of charm. We are indebted to her for this labor as much as
to any of those who sang to sweeten Ireland's wrong.

1902





A POET OF SHADOWS


When I was asked to write "anything" about Yeats, our Irish poet,
my thoughts were like rambling flocks that have no shepherd, and
without guidance my rambling thoughts have run anywhere.

I confess I have feared to enter or linger too long in the many-
colored land of Druid twilights and tunes. A beauty not our own,
more perfect than we can ourselves conceive, is a danger to the
imagination. I am too often tempted to wander with Usheen in
Timanoge and to forget my own heart and its more rarely accorded
vision of truth. I know I like my own heart best, but I never
look into the world of my friend without feeling that my region
lies in the temperate zone and is near the Arctic circle; the
flowers grow more rarely and are paler, and the struggle for