Two plays for dancers. William Butler Yeats

      Well, let them dream into what shape they please

      And fill waste mountains with the invisible tumult

      Of the fantastic conscience. I have no dread;

      They cannot put me into jail or shoot me,

      And seeing that their blood has returned to fields

      That have grown red from drinking blood like mine

      They would not if they could betray.

      This pathway

      Runs to the ruined Abbey of Corcomroe;

      The Abbey passed, we are soon among the stone

      And shall be at the ridge before the cocks

      Of Aughanish or Bailevlehan

      Or grey Aughtmana shake their wings and cry.

      (They go round the stage once)

      (speaking) They've passed the shallow well and the flat stone

      Fouled by the drinking cattle, the narrow lane

      Where mourners for five centuries have carried

      Noble or peasant to his burial.

      An owl is crying out above their heads.

      (singing) Why should the heart take fright

      What sets it beating so?

      The bitter sweetness of the night

      Has made it but a lonely thing.

      Red bird of March, begin to crow,

      Up with the neck and clap the wing,

      Red cock, and crow.

      (They go once round the stage. The first musician speaks.)

      And now they have climbed through the long grassy field

      And passed the ragged thorn trees and the gap

      In the ancient hedge; and the tomb-nested owl

      At the foot's level beats with a vague wing.

      (singing) My head is in a cloud;

      I'd let the whole world go.

      My rascal heart is proud

      Remembering and remembering.

      Red bird of March, begin to crow,

      Up with the neck and clap the wing

      Red cock and crow.

      (They go round the stage. The first musician speaks.)

      They are among the stones above the ash

      Above the briar and thorn and the scarce grass;

      Hidden amid the shadow far below them

      The cat-headed bird is crying out.

      (singing) The dreaming bones cry out

      Because the night winds blow

      And heaven's a cloudy blot;

      Calamity can have its fling.

      Red bird of March begin to crow,

      Up with the neck and clap the wing

      Red cock and crow.

      We're almost at the summit and can rest.

      The road is a faint shadow there; and there

      The abbey lies amid its broken tombs.

      In the old days we should have heard a bell

      Calling the monks before day broke to pray;

      And when the day has broken on the ridge,

      The crowing of its cocks.

      Is there no house

      Famous for sanctity or architectural beauty

      In Clare or Kerry, or in all wide Connacht

      The enemy has not unroofed?

      Close to the altar

      Broken by wind and frost and worn by time

      Donogh O'Brien has a tomb, a name in Latin.

      He wore fine clothes and knew the secrets of women

      But he rebelled against the King of Thomond

      And died in his youth.

      And why should he rebel?

      The King of Thomond was his rightful master.

      It was men like Donogh who made Ireland weak —

      My curse on all that troop, and when I die

      I'll leave my body, if I have any choice,

      Far from his ivy tod and his owl; have those

      Who, if your tale is true, work out a penance

      Upon the mountain-top where I am to hide,

      Come from the Abbey graveyard?

      They have not that luck,

      But are more lonely, those that are buried there,

      Warred in the heat of the blood; if they were rebels

      Some momentary impulse made them rebels

      Or the comandment of some petty king

      Who hated Thomond. Being but common sinners,

      No callers in of the alien from oversea

      They and their enemies of Thomond's party

      Mix in a brief dream battle above their bones,

      Or make one drove or drift in amity,

      Or in the hurry of the heavenly round

      Forget their earthly names; these are alone

      Being accursed.

      And if what seems is true

      And there are more upon the other side

      Than on this side of death, many a ghost

      Must meet them face to face and pass the word

      Even upon this grey and desolate hill.

      Until this hour no ghost or living man

      Has spoken though seven centuries have run

      Since they, weary of life and of men's eyes,

      Flung down their bones in some forgotten place

      Being accursed.

      I have heard that there are souls

      Who, having sinned after a monstrous fashion

      Take on them, being dead, a monstrous image