The Wanderings of Oisin: Book I (William Butler Yeats Poems)
S. Patrick. You who are bent, and bald, and blind, With a heavy heart and a wandering mind, Have known ...
S. Patrick. You who are bent, and bald, and blind, With a heavy heart and a wandering mind, Have known ...
All things can tempt me from this craft of verse: One time it was a woman's face, or worse - ...
I, the poet William Yeats, With old mill boards and sea-green slates, And smithy work from the Gort forge, Restored ...
I meditate upon a swallow's flight, Upon a aged woman and her house, A sycamore and lime-tree lost in night ...
O cloud-pale eyelids, dream-dimmed eyes, The poets labouring all their days To build a perfect beauty in rhyme Are overthrown ...
I What shall I do with this absurdity - O heart, O troubled heart - this caricature, Decrepit age that ...
You ask what - I have found, and far and wide I go: Nothing but Cromwell's house and Cromwell's murderous ...
I think it better that in times like these A poet's mouth be silent, for in truth We have no ...
Here is fresh matter, poet, Matter for old age meet; Might of the Church and the State, Their mobs put ...
Three old hermits took the air By a cold and desolate sea, First was muttering a prayer, Second rummaged for ...
Poets with whom I learned my trade. Companions of the Cheshire Cheese, Here's an old story I've remade, Imagining 'twould ...
His chosen comrades thought at school He must grow a famous man; He thought the same and lived by rule, ...
Poetry, music, I have loved, and yet Because of those new dead That come into my soul and escape Confusion ...
I Swear by what the sages spoke Round the Mareotic Lake That the Witch of Atlas knew, Spoke and set ...
We sat together at one summer's end, That beautiful mild woman, your close friend, And you and I, and talked ...
I Around me the images of thirty years: An ambush; pilgrims at the water-side; Casement upon trial, half hidden by ...
There is grey in your hair. Young men no longer suddenly catch their breath When you are passing; But maybe ...
That crazed girl improvising her music. Her poetry, dancing upon the shore, Her soul in division from itself Climbing, falling ...
(For Harry Clifton) I HAVE heard that hysterical women say They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow. Of poets ...
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