Merlin, the great magician,
Quelled by a woman's hand,
Lies under the mighty oak-trees
In the forest of Broceliande.
The fever of life comes never
To fret his poet-brain:
He has slept a thousand years, and shall sleep
A thousand years again.
Dew falls soft on the turf there,
Young birds twitter above:
Merlin sleeps, and surely sleep
Is better than aught save love.
Merlin sleeps, while the winters
Freeze, and the summers bloom,
And the old oaks whisper softly . . .
He is here till the Day of Doom.
O happy happy Merlin,
Afar in the forest deep!
To thee alone of the sons of men
Gave a woman the gift of sleep.