His apples are all stolen. Pruning time,
And the slow ripening of his pears and apples,
For him is a long, heart-moving history.
OONA.
Now lay your head once more upon my knees.
I will sing how Fergus drove his brazen cars.
[She chaunts with the thin voice of age.
Who will go drive with Fergus now,
And pierce the deep woods’ woven shade,
And dance upon the level shore?