In a note at the end of my last book 'The WildSwans at Coole' (Cuala Press.) I explained why Ipreferred this kind of drama, and where I had foundmy models, and where and how my first play afterthis kind was performed, and when and how I wouldhave it performed in the future. I can but refer thereader to the note or to the long introduction to'Certain Noble Plays of Japan' (Cuala Press.)
W. B. Yeats. October 11th. 1918
P. S. That I might write 'The Dreaming of theBones,' Mr. W. A. Henderson with great kindnesswrote out for me all historical allusions to Dervorgilla.
The stage is any bare place in a room close to thewall. A screen with a pattern of mountain and skycan stand against the wall, or a curtain with a likepattern hang upon it, but the pattern must onlysymbolize or suggest. One musician enters and thentwo others, the first stands singing while the otherstake their places. Then all three sit down againstthe wall by their instruments, which are alreadythere—a drum, a zither, and a flute. Or they unfolda cloth as in 'The Hawk's Well,' while the instrumentsare carried in.
FIRST MUSICIAN
(or all three musicians, singing) Why does my heart beat so? Did not a shadow pass? It passed but a moment ago. Who can have trod in the grass? What rogue is night-wandering? Have not old writers said That dizzy dreams can spring From the dry bones of the dead? And many a night it seems That all the valley fills With those fantastic dreams. They overflow the hills, So passionate is a shade, [Pg 2]Like wine that fills to the top A grey-green cup of jade, Or maybe an agate cup. (speaking) The hour before dawn and the moon covered up. The little village of Abbey is covered up; The little narrow trodden way that runs From the white road to the Abbey of Corcomroe Is covered up; and all about the hills Are like a circle of Agate or of Jade. Somewhere among great rocks on the scarce grass Birds cry, they cry their loneliness. Even the sunlight can be lonely here, Even hot noon is lonely. I hear a footfall— A young man with a lantern comes this way. He seems an Aran fisher, for he wears The flannel bawneen and the cow-hide shoe. He stumbles wearily, and stumbling prays.
(A young man enters, praying in Irish)
Once more the birds cry in their loneliness, But now they wheel about our heads; and now They have dropped on the grey stone to