The ancient myth said that the nine hazels of wisdom grew round a deep spring beneath the sea, and the hazels were the hazels of inspiration and of poetry--so early in Ireland were inspiration and poetry made identical with wisdom.

Seven streams of wisdom flowed from that fountain-head, and when they had fed the world returned to it again.

And all the art-makers of mankind, and of all arts, have drunk of their waters.

Five salmon in the spring ate of the hazel nuts, and some haunted the rivers of Ireland; and whosoever, like Finn, tasted the flesh of these immortal fish, was possessed of the wisdom which is inspiration and poetry.

Such was the ancient Irish conception of the art of poetry.
It is always an art which grows slowly into any excellence, and it needs for such growth a quieter life than the Irish lived for many centuries.