| 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. |
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| Druid. What would you, king of the proud Red Branch kings? |
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| 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. |
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| Druid. What would you, king of the proud Red Branch kings? |
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| 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. |
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| Druid. What would you, Fergus? |
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| Fergus. Be no more a king |
| But learn the dreaming
wisdom that is yours. |
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| 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. |
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| Fergus. A king is but a foolish labourer |
| Who wastes his blood to be anothers dream. |
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| Druid.
Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams; |
| Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round. |
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| 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! |