The Complete Works. William Butler Yeats

the horn, and he be hale and hearty.

      FORGAEL.

      How have I wronged her now that she is merry?

      But no, no, no! your cry is not against me.

      You know the councils of the ever-living,

      And all that tossing of your wings is joy,

      And all that murmuring’s but a marriage song;

      But if it be reproach, I answer this:

      There is not one among you that made love

      By any other means. You call it passion,

      Consideration, generosity;

      But it was all deceit, and flattery

      To win a woman in her own despite,

      For love is war, and there is hatred in it;

      And if you say that she came willingly—

      DECTORA.

      Why do you turn away and hide your face,

      That I would look upon for ever?

      FORGAEL.

      My grief.

      DECTORA.

      Have I not loved you for a thousand years?

      FORGAEL.

      I never have been golden-armed Iollan.

      DECTORA.

      I do not understand. I know your face

      Better than my own hands.

      FORGAEL.

      I have deceived you

      Out of all reckoning.

      DECTORA.

      Is it not true

      That you were born a thousand years ago,

      In islands where the children of Aengus wind

      In happy dances under a windy moon,

      And that you’ll bring me there?

      FORGAEL.

      I have deceived you;

      I have deceived you utterly.

      DECTORA.

      How can that be?

      Is it that though your eyes are full of love

      Some other woman has a claim on you,

      And I’ve but half?

      FORGAEL.

      Oh, no!

      DECTORA.

      And if there is,

      If there be half a hundred more, what matter?

      I’ll never give another thought to it;

      No, no, nor half a thought; but do not speak.

      Women are hard and proud and stubborn-hearted,

      Their heads being turned with praise and flattery;

      And that is why their lovers are afraid

      To tell them a plain story.

      FORGAEL.

      That’s not the story;

      But I have done so great a wrong against you,

      There is no measure that it would not burst.

      I will confess it all.

      DECTORA.

      What do I care,

      Now that my body has begun to dream,

      And you have grown to be a burning sod

      In the imagination and intellect?

      If something that’s most fabulous were true—

      If you had taken me by magic spells,

      And killed a lover or husband at my feet—

      I would not let you speak, for I would know

      That it was yesterday and not to-day

      I loved him; I would cover up my ears,

      As I am doing now. [A pause.] Why do you weep?

      FORGAEL.

      I weep because I’ve nothing for your eyes

      But desolate waters and a battered ship.

      DECTORA.

      O, why do you not lift your eyes to mine?

      FORGAEL.

      I weep—I weep because bare night’s above,

      And not a roof of ivory and gold.

      DECTORA.

      I would grow jealous of the ivory roof,

      And strike the golden pillars with my hands.

      I would that there was nothing in the world

      But my beloved—that night and day had perished,

      And all that is and all that is to be,

      All that is not the meeting of our lips.

      FORGAEL.

      I too, I too. Why do you look away?

      Am I to fear the waves, or is the moon

      My enemy?

      DECTORA.

      I looked upon the moon,

      Longing to knead and pull it into shape

      That I might lay it on your head as a crown.

      But now it is your thoughts that wander away,

      For you are looking at the sea. Do you not know

      How great a wrong it is to let one’s thought

      Wander a moment when one is in love?

      [He has moved away. She follows him. He is looking out over the sea, shading his eyes.]

      Why are you looking at the sea?

      FORGAEL.

      Look there!

      DECTORA.

      What is there but a troop of ash-grey birds

      That fly into the west?

      FORGAEL.

      But listen, listen!

      DECTORA.

      What is there but the crying of the birds?

      FORGAEL.

      If you’ll but listen closely to that crying

      You’ll hear them calling out to one another

      With human voices.

      DECTORA.

      O, I can hear them now.

      What are they? Unto what country do they fly?

      FORGAEL.

      To unimaginable happiness.

      They have been circling over our heads in the air,

      But now that they have taken to the road

      We have to follow, for they are our pilots;

      And though they’re but the colour of grey ash,

      They’re crying out, could you but hear their words,

      ‘There