William Butler Yeats

The Danann children laugh, in cradles of wrought gold,

Others because you did not keep

I bring you with reverent hands

God grant a blessing on this tower and cottage

I thought no more was needed

She might, so noble from head

Fasten your hair with a golden pin,

I wander by the edge

Pale brows, still hands and dim hair,

The Powers whose name and shape no living creature knows

I dreamed that I stood in a valley, and amid sighs,

O cloud-pale eyelids, dream-dimmed eyes

All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old,

Half close your eyelids, loosen your hair,

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,

Were you but lying cold and dead,

I know that I shall meet my fate

This great purple butterfly,

Although you hide in the ebb and flow

There is grey in your hair.

Bring where our Beauty lies

On the grey sand beside the shallow stream

O where is our Mother of Peace

O, curlew, cry no more in the air,

O, colleens, kneeling by your altar rails long hence,

'He grows younger every second

When her soul flies to the predestined dancing-place

With the old kindness, the old distinguished grace

Pardon, great enemy,

She is foremost of those that I would hear praised.

She has not grown uncivil

There is a queen in China, or maybe it's in Spain,

Five-and-twenty years have gone

Now that we're almost settled in our house

Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn,

'Like the speckled bird that steers

When have I last looked on

One had a lovely face,

I am worn out with dreams;

If this importunate heart trouble your peace

I hear the Shadowy Horses, their long manes a-shake,

When my arms wrap you round I press

Do you not hear me calling, white deer with no horns!

I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young

I think it better that in times like these

May God be praised for woman

This night has been so strange that it seemed

Because to-day is some religious festival

Sang Solomon to Sheba,

Hands, do what you're bid;

Cumhal called out, bending his head,

The jester walked in the garden:

The cat went here and there

Would I could cast a sail on the water

I would be ignorant as the dawn

On the grey rock of Cashel the mind's eye

She is playing like a child

O sweet everlasting Voices be still;

When I play on my fiddle in Dooney,

Although I can see him still,

'Call down the hawk from the air;

O what to me the little room

O'Driscoll drove with a song,

The host is riding from Knocknarea

I'll say and maybe dream I have drawn content—

Time drops in decay,

'What have I earned for all that work,' I said,

An old man cocked his ear upon a bridge;

Though you are in your shining days,

That cry's from the first cuckoo of the year

Stand up and lift your hand and bless

Bald heads forgetful of their sins,

Far off, most secret, and inviolate Rose,

I rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blow

I went out to the hazel wood,

When the flaming lute-thronged angelic door is wide;

The dews drop slowly and dreams gather: unknown spears

The trees are in their autumn beauty,

Come play with me;

Dear fellow-artist, why so free

My dear, my dear, I know

Be you still, be you still, trembling heart;

'Though logic choppers rule the town,

A speckled cat and a tame hare

'Although I'd lie lapped up in linen