We who still labor by the cromlech on the shore
and the grey cairn on the hill,
when the day sinks drowned in dew,
growing weary of the world's empires
bow down to you,
master of the still stars
and of the flaming door.
W.B.Yeats
from Valley of the Black Pig
We can make our minds so still like water
that beings gather about us, that they may see,
it may be, their own images, and so live for a moment with a clearer, perhaps even with a fiercer life, because of our quiet.
W.B.Yeats
from Celtic Twilight, 1902
