A distant sense of Aengus Óg
No more than knowledge of this god
Is brought to bear upon my mind

And yet I hear a nearer sound:
A harp elusive on the wind
So close that I can hear the strings

Could it be for me they sing
Like birds in the early summer dawn
Or the sigh of wind through bending grasses,

Or do I merely hear what passes
On the breeze for others to perceive?
Perhaps, but then a listening ear

Is also there, a curious stare
Wondering who might be hovering
At the edges of the whispered speech

And so I wait a turn to speak
And, if invited, say my piece
As yet unsure how to approach this god.