Yeats – B. K. Neifert

Oh Queen Maeve in great dearth of joys, deep hatred I had not—

’twas Ferguson who spoke so vile, but your bad name must now rot.

For I have this unwholesome dream, his murders which greatly spun

Of what you did, what you said, flights; his firings of the gun.

I sit in wonder at the great deeds, poor and in rags my pants;

Sinner I was, and sinner I be, forget a thousand rants

Said in private,—were not for men to see; nor was it a felony

Which stirred the nations stalwart from sea to every bloody sea.

My verse had changed, your heart’s not true, your judgments, they all were wrong.

Nothing but tender love I had for you; your betrayal had sorely stung.

These dreams are torment—nails in my arms, the pain of your sharp gun.

These are not my dreams, but I have to say, they are that Ferguson’s.

For I am small, known not by you, my strong friend but ally lost;

For I never had thought you’d harm me; but friendship was paid the cost.

Rather, someone else I see, in vision who wears that rebel cloth—

It is Ferguson, he who is to be, that man eternally lost.

Tag: Yeats