One winter evening an old knight in rusted ?armour rode slowly along the woody southern slope of Ben Bulben, watg the sun go down in crimson clouds over the sea. His horse was tired, as after a long journey, and he had upon his helmet the crest of no neighb lord or king, but a small rose made of rubies that glimmered every moment to a deeper crimson. His white hair fell in thin curls upon his shoulders, and its disorder added to the melancholy of his face, which was the face of one of those who have e but seldom into the world, and always for its trouble, the dreamers who must do what they dream, the doers who must dream what they do.
After gazing a while towards the su the reins fall upon the neck of his horse, and, stretg out both arms towards the west, he said, O Divine Rose of Intellectual Flame, let the gates of thy peace be opeo me at last! And suddenly a loud squealing began in the woods some hundreds of yards further up the mountain side. He sto……（内容加载失败！）
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