by G. R. Grove
A vat of beer would not have been too great
to slake his thirst; the best that I could find:
one bottle large, divided twixt us two —
the greater half poured out, of course, for him —
fulfillment of a vow. On evening bench
I sat alone – and not alone – to drink
my share, and in the twilight seemed to feel
his presence great. O Good God, great and strong,
all summer’s heat and passion in your heart,
all growth and procreation in your loins,
and master also of the harper’s craft,
no fear of foe, no drudgery too great
to daunt your boundless courage. All things grow
at your command, and ripen with the year,
the while sweet harvest waits. Your course is sure,
your fame is just. Inspire, I ask you now,
my growth as bard and my fecundity
to brew such mead of song as we shall share
in days to come. O Lord who never fails,
I praise you now! An Dagda, Good God, hail!
