I will go in true Yeatsian style from the city, where enchantment awaits me at my magic lake, thirteen Irish miles and six thousand years away through the memories of the ages my mind will rake. Sadly, the eagles no longer watch from their eyrie nor keep a lookout over the Black Castle ruin, where they saw the lost city beneath the bright waters and the silver shod charger below Knockadoon. Learned scholars still come to study the stone circle, the cromlechs, the caves and the old round forts there; where our people lived, worshipped old gods, and were buried - I can still feel their presence and breathe history’s air. I have seen all its wonders but the features I cherish are the gorse-splashed green hills when the cows go to milk; the peace and the beauty with the wild birds a-sharing, and the ceolsidhe’s sweet notes coming home on the wind. I will spend the long day atop Carrigeen Hill, hear the waters soft-slapping its stony old face; list to the larks sing to heaven and earth – glory to God for this wonderful place! Near the end of my days shall I hear Áine’s spirit, she who comforts the dying, recite a sweet rune; will the suantraí from Fer-Fi’s sweet harp be my last air? Contented I would sleep then, near old Knockadoon.