Two plays for dancers

GHOST of CUCHULAINWho is it stands before me thereShedding such light from limb and hairAs when the moon complete at lastWith every labouring crescent past,And lonely with extreme delight,Flings out upon the fifteenth night?WOMAN of the SIDHEBecause I long I am not complete.What pulled your hands about your feetAnd your head down upon your knees,And hid your face?GHOST of CUCHULAINOld memories:A dying boy, with handsome faceUpturned upon a beaten place;A sacred yew-tree on a strand;A woman that held in steady handIn all the happiness of her youthBefore her man had broken troth,A burning wisp to light the door;And many a round or crescent more;Dead men and women. MemoriesHave pulled my head upon my knees.WOMAN of the SIDHECould you that have loved many a womanThat did not reach beyond the human,Lacking a day to be complete,Love one that though her heart can beat,Lacks it but by an hour or so.GHOST of CUCHULAINI know you now for long agoI met you on the mountain side,Beside a well that seemed long dry,Beside old thorns where the hawk flew.I held out arms and hands but you,That now seem friendly, fled awayHalf woman and half bird of prey.WOMAN of the SIDHEHold out your arms and hands againYou were not so dumbfounded whenI was that bird of prey and yetI am all woman now.GHOST of CUCHULAINI am notThe young and passionate man I wasAnd though that brilliant light surpassAll crescent forms, my memoriesWeigh down my hands, abash my eyes.WOMAN of the SIDHEThen kiss my mouth. Though memoryBe beauty's bitterest enemyI have no dread for at my kissMemory on the moment vanishes:Nothing but beauty can remain.GHOST of CUCHULAINAnd shall I never know againIntricacies of blind remorse?WOMAN of the SIDHETime shall seem to stay his course,For when your mouth and my mouth meetAll my round shall be completeImagining all its circles run;And there shall be oblivionEven to quench Cuchulain's drouth,Even to still that heart.GHOST of CUCHULAINYour mouth.(They are about to kiss, he turns away)O Emer, Emer.WOMAN of the SIDHESo then it is sheMade you impure with memory.GHOST of CUCHULAINStill in that dream I see you stand,A burning wisp in your right hand,To wait my coming to the house,As when our parents married us.WOMAN of the SIDHEBeing among the dead you love herThat valued every slut above herWhile you still lived.GHOST of CUCHULAINO my lost Emer.WOMAN of the SIDHEAnd there is not a loose-tongued schemerBut could draw you if not dead,From her table and her bed.How could you be fit to wiveWith flesh and blood, being born to liveWhere no one speaks of broken trothFor all have washed out of their eyesWind blown dirt of their memoriesTo improve their sight?GHOST of CUCHULAINYour mouth, your mouth.(Their lips approach but Cuchulain turns away as Emer speaks.)EMERIf he may live I am content,Content that he shall turn on me,If but the dead will set him freeThat I may speak with him at whiles,Eyes that the cold moon or the harsh seaOr what I know not's made indifferent.GHOST of CUCHULAINWhat a wise silence has fallen in this dark!I know you now in all your ignoranceOf all whereby a lover's quiet is rent.What dread so great as that he should forgetThe least chance sight or sound, or scratch or markOn an old door, or frail bird heard and seenIn the incredible clear light love castAll round about her some forlorn lost day?That face, though fine enough, is a fool's faceAnd there's a folly in the deathless SidheBeyond man's reach.WOMAN of the SIDHEI told you to forgetAfter my fashion; you would have none of it;So now you may forget in a man's fashion.There's an unbridled horse at the sea's edge.Mount; it will carry you in an eye's winkTo where the King of Country-Under-Wave,Old Mananan, nods above the board and movesHis chessmen in a dream. Demand your lifeAnd come again on the unbridled horse.GHOST of CUCHULAINForgive me those rough words. How could you knowThat man is held to those whom he has lovedBy pain they gave, or pain that he has given,Intricacies of pain.WOMAN of the SIDHEI am ashamedThat being of the deathless shades I choseA man so knotted to impurity.(The Ghost of Cuchulain goes out)WOMAN of the SIDHE (to Figure of Cuchulain)To you that have no living light, but droppedFrom a last leprous crescent of the moon,I owe it all.FIGURE of CUCHULAINBecause you have failedI must forego your thanks, I that took pityUpon your love and carried out your planTo tangle all his life and make it nothingThat he might turn to you.WOMAN of the SIDHEWas it from pityYou taught the woman to prevail against me?FIGURE of CUCHULAINYou know my nature – by what name I am called.WOMAN of the SIDHEWas it from pity that you hid the truthThat men are bound to women by the wrongsThey do or suffer?FIGURE of CUCHULAINYou know what being I am.WOMAN of the SIDHEI have been mocked and disobeyed – your powerWas more to you than my good-will, and nowI'll have you learn what my ill-will can do;I lay you under bonds upon the instantTo stand before our King and face the chargeAnd take the punishment.FIGURE of CUCHULAINI'll stand there first.And tell my story first, and ManananKnows that his own harsh sea made my heart cold.WOMAN of the SIDHEMy horse is there and shall outrun your horse.(The Figure of Cuchulain falls back, the Woman of the Sidhe goes out. Drum taps, music resembling horse hoofs.)EITHNE INGUBA (entering quickly)I heard the beat of hoofs, but saw no horse,And then came other hoofs and after thatI heard low angry cries and thereuponI ceased to be afraid.EMERCuchulain wakes.(The figure turns round. It once more wears the heroic mask.)CUCHULAINEithne Inguba take me in your arms,I have been in some strange place and am afraid.(The First Musician comes to the front of stage, the others from each side and unfold the cloth singing)THE MUSICIANSWhat makes her heart beat thus,Plain to be understoodI have met in a man's houseA statue of solitude,Moving there and walking;Its strange heart beating fastFor all our talking.O still that heart at last.O bitter reward!Of many a tragic tomb!And we though astonished are dumbAnd give but a sigh and a wordA passing word.Although the door be shutAnd all seem well enough,Although wide world hold notA man but will give you his love.The moment he has looked at you,He that has loved the bestMay turn from a statueHis too human breast.O bitter reward!Of many a tragic tomb!And we though astonished are dumbOr give but a sigh and a wordA passing word.What makes your heart so beat?Some one should stay at her side.When beauty is completeHer own thought will have diedAnd danger not be diminished;Dimmed at three quarter lightWhen moon's round is finishedThe stars are out of sight.O bitter reward!Of many a tragic tomb!And we though astonished are dumbOr give but a sigh and a wordA passing word.(When the cloth is folded again the stage is bare.)

Here ends, 'Two Plays for Dancers,' by William Butler Yeats. Four hundred copies of this book have been printed and published by Elizabeth Corbet Yeats on paper made in Ireland, at the Cuala Press, Churchtown, Dundrum, in the County of Dublin, Ireland. Finished on the tenth day of January in the year nineteen hundred and nineteen.