William Butler Yeats

The Valley Of The Black Pig

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 cromlech on the shore, The grey calm 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.