The Valley of the Black Pig by W.B. Yeats

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The dews drop slowly and dreams gather: unknown spears / Suddenly hurtle before my dream-awakened eyes, / And then the clash of fallen horsemen and the cries / Of unknown perishing armies beat about my ears.

We who still labour by the cromlec on the shore, / The grey cairn on the hill, when day sinks drowned in dew, / Being weary of the world's empires, bow down to you / Master of the still stars and of the flaming door.

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