The Fair Fort of Crede

Pleasant is her fortress fair,
Men and maids and boys are there,
Druids and the Sons of Song,
Cupmen, doormen, skilled and strong.

Men for steed, and men for stall,
Men to rule the roast in hall;
Supreme o'er all sits Crdde
Bright, beauteous, gold-haired lady.

Dear to me that pleasant dun,
With soft down to sit upon;
Were the will in Crede's breast,
Happy here would be my quest.

Full fair the porch, where splendid
Blue wings and yellow blended:
Round the fountain is a wall
Of crystal and carmogal.

Bowl of juice of berry glints,
Whence her eyebrows black she tints;
Clear vats of ale are flowing,
Rich cups and goblets glowing.

Lime-white is her fortress wall,
Rugs and rushes deck her hall,
Silks are seen and mantles blue,
Gold and horns of glossy hue.

Her bow'r by lakelet beameth,
There gold with silver gleameth,
Wings, brown and crimson, cover
Blent bright, its roof all over.

Pillars twain of green stand there,
By the portal, passing fair;
Spoil of silver, famed of yore,
Forms the beam above the door.

On thy left is Crede's chair,
Ever fairer and more fair;
By dainty bed 'tis shining,
Alpine gold round it twining.

O'er this chair, like a bower,
Crede's couch seems to tower;
Orient-built by Tuil's device
With pure gold and gems of price.

Yet a bed beams on thy right
Built of gold and silver white;
From rods of light bronze, looping,
Fall fox-glove curtains drooping.

In that home, the household bright
Seem all destined to delight;
Never mantle dim or bare
'Neath the clusters of their hair.

Wounded men sink to slumbers,
Whilst blood their bodies cumbers,
When they hear birds of Faery
Sing o'er her bower airy.

If she grant me grace at all —
She, for whom the cuckoos call,
Then I, for thanks, will give her
More lays to live for ever.