THE dews drop slowly and dreams gather: unknown spears <br />Suddenly hurtle before my dream-awakened eyes, <br />And then the clash of fallen horsemen and the cries <br />Of unknown perishing armies beat about my ears. <br />We who still labour by the cromlech on the shore, <br />The grey caim on the hill, when day sinks drowned in dew, <br />Being weary of the world's empires, bow down to you. <br />Master of the still stars and of the flaming door.<br /><br />William Butler Yeats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-valleys-of-the-black-pig/
