There is no peace now however thing to,
No peace where the ways of men ring loud,
save in a secret place that I know,
Hidden as in a cloud.
All the high hills stand clustering round,
Arched to protect it from trouble and noise,
the great sting hills that sing without sound,
And speak with no voice.
There lies Caorog, the mute low lake
And Bun-na-freamha lying aloft,
Peacefully sleeping, or even if they wake,
Lapping low and soft.
Upon the high hill-tops the heather may be crying.
And over the hill-tops the voices of men are heard,
But here only water lapping and sighing,
Or the wail of a bird.
Peace, peace and peace from the inner heart of dream,
More full of wisdom than speech can tell,
Drop like a veil round the show of things that seem
With an invisible spell.