I saw an old white goat on the slope of Slieve Donard,

Nibbling daintily at the herb leaves that grow in the crevasses,

And I thought of James Stephens—

He wrote of an old white goat within my remembering,

Seven years ago I read—

Now it comes back

Full of the dreaming black beautiful crags.

I shall drink of the white goat’s milk,

The old white goat of Slieve Donard,

Slieve Donard where the herbs of wisdom grow,

The herbs of the Secret of Life that the old white goat has nibbled,

And I shall live longer than Methuselah,

Brother to no man.