I do not know how to praise you, O my love, For I am no master poet who can claim the twelve branches Your hair in my hands was sweet as new milk Your lips against mine like the rich mead of kings.
Baile and Aillinn could not meet in life- Only the apple and the yew spoke of them In speech that brought them together beyond death But I am Chairiste Ni Cummen and I can better that
Unlooked for, maybe forgotten, I have come To win you, who, once won, graced my arms With your presence Unthought, perhaps despaired, I return From lands which, though mortal, are alive And waiting for you.
