Fergus. This whole day have I followed in the rocks, |
And you have changed and flowed from shape to
shape, |
First as a raven on whose ancient wings |
Scarcely a feather lingered, then you seemed |
A weasel
moving on from stone to stone, |
And now at last you wear a human shape, |
A thin grey man half lost in
gathering night. |
|
|
|
|
Druid. What would you, king of the proud Red Branch kings? |
|
|
|
|
Fergus. This would I
say, most wise of living souls: |
Young subtle Conchubar sat close by me |
When I gave judgment, and his
words were wise, |
And what to me was burden without end, |
To him seemed easy, so I laid the crown |
Upon
his head to cast away my sorrow. |
|
|
|
|
Druid. What would you, king of the proud Red Branch kings? |
|
|
|
|
Fergus. A king and proud! and that is my despair. |
I feast amid my people on the hill, |
And pace the
woods, and drive my chariot-wheels |
In the white border of the murmuring sea; |
And still I feel the crown
upon my head. |
|
|
|
|
Druid. What would you, Fergus? |
|
|
|
|
Fergus. Be no more a king |
But learn the dreaming
wisdom that is yours. |
|
|
|
|
Druid. Look on my thin grey hair and hollow cheeks |
And on these hands that may
not lift the sword, |
This body trembling like a wind-blown reed. |
No womans loved me, no man sought
my help. |
|
|
|
|
Fergus. A king is but a foolish labourer |
Who wastes his blood to be anothers dream. |
|
|
|
|
Druid.
Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams; |
Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round. |
|
|
|
|
Fergus. I
see my life go drifting like a river |
From change to change; I have been many things |
A green drop in
the surge, a gleam of light |
Upon a sword, a fir-tree on a hill, |
An old slave grinding at a heavy quern, |
A
king sitting upon a chair of gold |
And all these things were wonderful and great; |
But now I have grown
nothing, knowing all. |
Ah! Druid, Druid, how great webs of sorrow |
Lay hidden in the small slate-coloured
thing! |