THE VALLEY OF THE BLACK PIG

by: William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

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 cairn 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.

Moripolkananda

Rosse limba lenkie ar olori okómar; rihtie yoménar
ehti usinwe epe hendunyat olorínen ekkuine,
Tá i talante roquénion yalme ar i nainier
usinwe fírala ohtarion ara larunyat palpar.
Emme i mólamme ara i ambal i rávasse,
i mista hahta or i ambon, íre rossea núta 'n aure,
Ambaro aranínen yerna, elyen kawimme,
Héru i ruina fenno ar élion quilde.