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The trees swing in the trade, quoth Rua, doubtful of words, And the sun stares from the sky, but what should trouble the birds. Up from the shade he gazed, where high the parapet shone, And he was aware of a ledge and of things that moved thereon. What manner of things are these. Are they spirits abroad by day. Or the foes of my clan that are come, bringing death by a perilous way. The valley was gouged like a vessel, and round like the vessels lip, With a cape of the side of the hill thrust forth like the bows of a ship.
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