by W. B. Yeats
THE OLD MEN OF THE TWILIGHT.
At the place, close to the Dead Man's Point, at the Rosses, where thedisused pilot-house looks out to sea through two round windows likeeyes, a mud cottage stood in the last century. It also was a watchhouse,for a certain old Michael Bruen, who had been a smuggler in his day,and was still the father and grandfather of smugglers, lived there, andwhen, after nightfall, a tall schooner crept over the bay from Roughley,it was his business to hang a horn lanthorn in the southern window, thatthe news might travel to Dorren's Island, and from thence, by anotherhorn lanthorn, to the village of the Rosses. But for this glimmering ofmessages, he had little communion with mankind, for he was very old, andhad no thought for anything but for the making of his soul, at the footof the Spanish crucifix of carved oak that hung by his chimney, or bentdouble over the rosary of stone beads brought to him a cargo of silksand laces out of France. One night he had watched hour after hour,because a gentle and favourable wind was blowing, and _La Mere deMisericorde_ was much overdue; and he was about to lie down upon hisheap of straw, seeing that the dawn was whitening the east, and that theschooner would not dare to round Roughley and come to an anchor afterdaybreak; when he saw a long line of herons flying slowly from Dorren'sIsland and towards the pools which lie, half choked with reeds, behindwhat is called the Second Rosses. He had never before seen herons flyingover the sea, for they are shore-keeping birds, and partly because thishad startled him out of his drowsiness, and more because the longdelay of the schooner kept his cupboard empty, he took down his rustyshot-gun, of which the barrel was tied on with a piece of string, andfollowed them towards the pools.
When he came close enough to hear the sighing of the rushes in theoutermost pool, the morning was grey over the world, so that the tallrushes, the still waters, the vague clouds, the thin mists lying amongthe sand-heaps, seemed carved out of an enormous pearl. In a little hecame upon the herons, of whom there were a great number, standing withlifted legs in the shallow water; and crouching down behind a bank ofrushes, looked to the priming of his gun, and bent for a moment over hisrosary to murmur: 'Patron Patrick, let me shoot a heron; made into a pieit will support me for nearly four days, for I no longer eat as in myyouth. If you keep me from missing I will say a rosary to you everynight until the pie is eaten.' Then he lay down, and, resting his gunupon a large stone, turned towards a heron which stood upon a bank ofsmooth grass over a little stream that flowed into the pool; for hefeared to take the rheumatism by wading, as he would have to do if heshot one of those which stood in the water. But when he looked alongthe barrel the heron was gone, and, to his wonder and terror, a man ofinfinitely great age and infirmity stood in its place. He lowered thegun, and the heron stood there with bent head and motionless feathers,as though it had slept from the beginning of the world. He raised thegun, and no sooner did he look along the iron than that enemy of allenchantment brought the old man again before him, only to vanish when helowered the gun for the second time. He laid the gun down, and crossedhimself three times, and said a _Paternoster_ and an _Ave Maria_, andmuttered half aloud: 'Some enemy of God and of my patron is standingupon the smooth place and fishing in the blessed water,' and then aimedvery carefully and slowly. He fired, and when the smoke had gone saw anold man, huddled upon the grass and a long line of herons flying withclamour towards the sea. He went round a bend of the pool, and comingto the little stream looked down on a figure wrapped in faded clothes ofblack and green of an ancient pattern and spotted with blood. He shookhis head at the sight of so great a wickedness. Suddenly the clothesmoved and an arm was stretched upwards towards the rosary which hungabout his neck, and long wasted fingers almost touched the cross. Hestarted back, crying: 'Wizard, I will let no wicked thing touch myblessed beads'; and the sense of a The Old great danger just escapedmade him tremble.
'If you listen to me,' replied a voice so faint that it was like a sigh,'you will know that I am not a wizard, and you will let me kiss thecross before I die.'
'I will listen to you,' he answered, 'but I will not let you touch myblessed beads,' and sitting on the grass a little way from the dyingman, he reloaded his gun and laid it across his knees and composedhimself to listen.
'I know not how many generations ago we, who are now herons, were themen of learning of the King Leaghaire; we neither hunted, nor went tobattle, nor listened to the Druids preaching, and even love, if it cameto us at all, was but a passing fire. The Druids and the poets told us,many and many a time, of a new Druid Patrick; and most among them werefierce against him, while a few thought his doctrine merely the doctrineof the gods set out in new symbols, and were for giving him welcome; butwe yawned in the midst of their tale. At last they came crying that hewas coming to the king's house, and fell to their dispute, but we wouldlisten to neither party, for we were busy with a dispute about themerits of the Great and of the Little Metre; nor were we disturbedwhen they passed our door with sticks of enchantment under their arms,travelling towards the forest to contend against his coming, nor whenthey returned after nightfall with torn robes and despairing cries; forthe click of our knives writing our thoughts in Ogham filled us withpeace and our dispute filled us with joy; nor even when in the morningcrowds passed us to hear the strange Druid preaching the commandments ofhis god. The crowds passed, and one, who had laid down his knife to yawnand stretch himself, heard a voice speaking far off, and knew that theDruid Patrick was preaching within the king's house; but our hearts weredeaf, and we carved and disputed and read, and laughed a thin laughtertogether. In a little we heard many feet coming towards the house, andpresently two tall figures stood in the door, the one in white, theother in a crimson robe; like a great lily and a heavy poppy; and weknew the Druid Patrick and our King Leaghaire. We laid down the slenderknives and bowed before the king, but when the black and green robes hadceased to rustle, it was not the loud rough voice of King Leaghaire thatspoke to us, but a strange voice in which there was a rapture as ofone speaking from behind a battlement of Druid flame: "I preached thecommandments of the Maker of the world," it said; "within the king'shouse and from the centre of the earth to the windows of Heaven therewas a great silence, so that the eagle floated with unmoving wings inthe white air, and the fish with unmoving fins in the dim water, whilethe linnets and the wrens and the sparrows stilled there ever-tremblingtongues in the heavy boughs, and the clouds were like white marble,and the rivers became their motionless mirrors, and the shrimps in thefar-off sea-pools were still enduring eternity in patience, although itwas hard." And as he named these things, it was like a king numberinghis people. "But your slender knives went click, click! upon the oakenstaves, and, all else being silent, the sound shook the angels withanger. O, little roots, nipped by the winter, who do not awake althoughthe summer pass above you with innumerable feet. O, men who have no partin love, who have no part in song, who have no part in wisdom, but dwellwith the shadows of memory where the feet of angels cannot touch you asthey pass over your heads, where the hair of demons cannot sweep aboutyou as they pass under your feet, I lay upon you a curse, and change youto an example for ever and ever; you shall become grey herons and standpondering in grey pools and flit over the world in that hour when it ismost full of sighs, having forgotten the flame of the stars and not yetfound the flame of the sun; and you shall preach to the other heronsuntil they also are like you, and are an example for ever and ever; andyour deaths shall come to you by chance and unforeseen, that no fire ofcertainty may visit your hearts."'
The voice of the old man of learning became still, but the voteen bentover his gun with his eyes upon the ground, trying in vain to understandsomething of this tale; and he had so bent, it may be for a long time,had not a tug at his rosary made him start out of his dream. The old manof learning had crawled along the grass, and was now trying to draw thecross down low enough for his lips to reach it.
'You must not touch my blessed beads, cried the voteen, and struckthe long withered fingers with the barrel of his gun. He need not havetrembled,
for the old man fell back upon the grass with a sigh and wasstill. He bent down and began to consider the black and green clothes,for his fear had begun to pass away when he came to understand that hehad something the man of learning wanted and pleaded for, and now thatthe blessed beads were safe, his fear had nearly all gone; and surely,he thought, if that big cloak, and that little tight-fitting cloakunder it, were warm and without holes, Saint Patrick would take theenchantment out of them and leave them fit for human use. But the blackand green clothes fell away wherever his fingers touched them, and whilethis was a new wonder, a slight wind blew over the pool and crumbled theold man of learning and all his ancient gear into a little heap of dust,and then made the little heap less and less until there was nothing butthe smooth green grass.