. . .At times, as if the moonlight altered them, And my mind alters as if it were the crane’s; For when the heavy body has grown weak There’s nothing that can tether the wild mind That being moonstruck and fantastical Goes where it fancies. I had even thought I knew your voice and face, but now the words Are so unlikely that I needs must ask Who is it that bids me put my hunger by? Senias. I am your oldest pupil, Seanchan; The one that has been with you many years, So many that you said at Candlemas That I had almost done with school, and knew All but all that poets understand. Seanchan. My oldest pupil. No, that cannot be; For it is someone of the courtly crowds That have been round about me from sunrise And I am tricked by dreams, but I’ll refute them. I asked the pupil that I loved the best, At Candlemas, why poetry is honoured, Wishing to know how he’d defend our craft In distant lands among strange churlish Kings. And he’d . . . Read More