Moon of the berries is waning to clay   Bavol the wind leap on the whale's way   Sing for Veshengro, oak ash and may   I will not flash the day glance on the strong   king's shield   Nor yet the moon glance on the frightened man   Bring her sweet peace ere she rests on the   breast of God   With the nutrnegs and oak-apples of her rosary   That counts the praying sand   Who cradles earth and water in the hollow of her hand      I was a wasp on a nettled hill   Ten thousand brothers in a nest of fungus paper   And every sopping apple held its cider sweet for my thin tongue      I was a swineherd at the court of Fionn   I wore the coat of patches with Jalal beneath the stars   Sang at the black court of Ain   I baked sweet pastries for the Quenn of Spain   I hid my alchemy beneath the stone of lies   Burned at the post my boiling brain   Made craters of my eyes      The mystery of history it is not revealed   We hear not clear but only with hope and fear   And the pomp of crime, and the pride of the time      I was a monk repelled by a woman's smell   I sailed in Darwin's ship, a mouse that gnawed the grain   Trapped by the cook on one dark day   I have spoken with the Thames in much sweeter times   And with the Medway where she rolls her waves      The snake-weed is hissing the wind of the morn   The mountains are mouthing where Albion is born   The light rays are gathering where Horus is shown   Sing for Veshengro. oak ash and thorn.