The Valley Of The Black Pig
by William Butler Yeats
The dews drop slowly and dreams gather: unknown spears Suddenly hurtle before my dream-awakened eyes, And then the clash of fallen horsemen and the cries Of unknown perishing armies beat about my ears. We who still labour by the cromlec on the shore, The grey cairn on the hill, when day sinks drowned in dew, Being weary of the worlds empires, bow down to you Master of the still stars and of the flaming door.
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