Who will go drive with Fergus now，

    And pierce the deep wood‘s woven shade，

    And dance upon the level shore？

    Young man， lift up your russet brow，

    And lift your tender eyelids¹， maid，

    And brood on hopes and fear no more.

    And no more turn aside and brood

    Upon love‘s bitter mystery；

    For Fergus rules the brazen² cars，

    And rules the shadows of the wood，

    And the white breast of the dim sea

    And all dishevelled wandering stars.