The Princess on the Headland

My mother the queen is dead. My father the king is old. He fumbles his cirque of gold And dreams of a year long fled. The young men stare at my face, But cannot meet my glance— Cavan tall as a lance, Orra swift in the race. Death was ever my price, Since my maidenhood began: At the thought of a Gaelic man My heart is sister of ice. ’Tis another for whom I wait, Though I have not kissed his sword: He or none is my lord, Though our night be soon or late. The star grows great in my breast: It is crying clearly now To the star on the burnished prow Of his galley far in the West. The capes of the North are dim, And the windward beaches smoke Where the last long roller spoke The tidings it held of him. Sorrow I know he brings, Battle, despair and change,— Beauty cruel and strange, And the shed bright blood of kings. Breast, be white for his sake! Mouth, be red for the kiss! Soul, be strong for your bliss! Heart, be ready to break!