CUCHULLAIN.
That is all words, all words, a young man’s talk;
I am their plough, their harrow, their very strength,
For he that’s in the sun begot this body
Upon a mortal woman, and I have heard tell
It seemed as if he had outrun the moon,
That he must always follow through waste heaven,
He loved so happily. He’ll be but slow
To break a tree that was so sweetly planted.