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 caim 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.