Under the Moon by W.B. Yeats

I have no happiness in dreaming of Brycelinde; / Nor Avalon the grass green hollow, nor Joyous Isle, / Where one found Lancelot crazed and hid him for a while, / Nor Ulad when Naoise had thrown a sail upon the wind, / Nor lands that seem too dim to be burdens on the heart, / Land-under-Wave, where out of the moon's light and the sun's / Seven old sisters wind the threads of the long lived ones, / Land-of-the-Tower, where Aengus has thrown the gates apart, / And Wood-of-Wonders, where one kills an ox at dawn / To find it when night falls laid on a golden bier: / Therein are many queens like Branwen, and Guinivere; / And Niam, and Laban, and Fand, who could change to an otter or fawn / And the wood-woman whose lover was changed to a blue-eyed hawk; / And whether I go in my dreams by woodland, or dun, or shore, / Or on the unpeopled waves with kings to pull at the oar, / I hear the harp string praise them or hear their mournful talk.

Because of a story I heard under the thin horn / Of the third moon, that hung between the night and the day, / To dream of women whose beauty was folded in dismay, / Even in an old story, is a burden not to be borne.