_Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days! Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways: Cuchulain battling with the bitter tide; The Druid, gray, wood-nurtured, quiet-eyed, Who cast round Fergus dreams, and ruin untold; And thine own sadness, whereof stars, grown old In dancing silver-sandalled on the sea, Sing in their high and lonely melody. Come near, that no more blinded by man’s fate, I find under the boughs of love and hate, In all poor foolish things that live a day, Eternal beauty wandering on her way._ _Come near, come near, come near—Ah, leave me still A little space for the rose-breath to fill! Lest I no more hear common things that crave; The weak worm hiding down in its small cave, The field mouse running by me in the grass, And heavy mortal hopes that toil and pass; But seek alone to hear the strange things said By God to the bright hearts of those long dead, And learn to chaunt a tongue men do not know. Come near; I would, before my time to go, Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways: Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days._ FERGUS AND THE DRUID FERGUS. THE 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 gray 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 care. DRUID. What would you, king of the proud Red Branch kings? FERGUS. 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, king of the proud Red Branch kings? FERGUS. I’d put away the foolish might of a king, But learn the dreaming wisdom that is yours. DRUID. Look on my thin gray hair and hollow cheeks, And on these hands that may not lift the sword, This body trembling like a wind-blown reed. No maiden loves me, no man seeks my help, Because I be not of the things I dream. FERGUS. A wild and foolish labourer is a king, To do and do and do, and never dream. DRUID. Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams; Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round. FERGUS.