I see my life go dripping like a stream 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, being all, And the whole world weighs down upon my heart: Ah! Druid, Druid, how great webs of sorrow Lay hidden in the small slate-coloured thing! THE DEATH OF CUCHULAIN A MAN came slowly from the setting sun, To Forgail’s daughter, Emer, in her dun, And found her dyeing cloth with subtle care, And said, casting aside his draggled hair: ‘I am Aleel, the swineherd, whom you bid Go dwell upon the sea cliffs, vapour-hid; But now my years of watching are no more.’ Then Emer cast the web upon the floor, And stretching out her arms, red with the dye, Parted her lips with a loud sudden cry. Looking on her, Aleel, the swineherd, said: ‘Not any god alive, nor mortal dead, Has slain so mighty armies, so great kings, Nor won the gold that now Cuchulain brings.’ ‘Why do you tremble thus from feet to crown?’ Aleel, the swineherd, wept and cast him down Upon the web-heaped floor, and thus his word: ‘With him is one sweet-throated like a bird, And lovelier than the moon upon the sea; He made for her an army cease to be.’ ‘Who bade you tell these things?’ and then she cried To those about, ‘Beat him with thongs of hide And drive him from the door.’ And thus it was; And where her son, Finmole, on the smooth grass Was driving cattle, came she with swift feet, And called out to him, ‘Son, it is not meet That you stay idling here with flocks and herds.’ ‘I have long waited, mother, for those words; But wherefore now?’ ‘There is a man to die; You have the heaviest arm under the sky.’ ‘My father dwells among the sea-worn bands, And breaks the ridge of battle with his hands.’ ‘Nay, you are taller than Cuchulain, son.’ ‘He is the mightiest man in ship or dun.’ ‘Nay, he is old and sad with many wars, And weary of the crash of battle cars.’ ‘I only ask what way my journey lies, For God, who made you bitter, made you wise.’ ‘The Red Branch kings a tireless banquet keep, Where the sun falls into the Western deep. Go there, and dwell on the green forest rim; But tell alone your name and house to him Whose blade compels, and bid them send you one Who has a like vow from their triple dun.’