All the flowers of the world were there; the paradise of wild things it was, the park of Kubla Khan.
"In Xanadu did Kubla Khan," quoted young Randall, "A stately pleasure dome decree, Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man, Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens, bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery." "Whose poem is that poem, Brian Oge ?" "It is a poem of Coleridge's, Malachi." "I though it was maybe a poem of Colquitto Dall McCracken of Skye, that one of you lads had put English on.

It is a poem of the head, you ken, and Colquitto, being a dark man, could only see with the eye's ghost.
But it hasn't the warmth, the life of the work of Blind Colquitto, Brian Oge, do you mind the poem Angus More Campbell of Rathlin wrote to Colquitto Dall ?" "'Is aoibhinn duid, Colquitto Dall,'" I remembered: "It is happy for thee, blind Colquitto, who dost not see much of women.

If thou wert to see what we see, thou wouldst be tormented even as I am.

My sorrow, O God, that I was not stricken blind before I saw her amber, twisted hair!" "That's it, that's it, Brian Oge.

But this is not the place to be talking of poetry.