It's certain that fine women eat A crazy salad with their meat.
I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic's heart.
From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged / In rambling talk with an image of air: / Vague memories, nothing but memories.
I call on those that call me son, Grandson, or great-grandson, On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts, To judge what I have done. Have I, that put it into words, Spoilt what old loins have sent?
Now as at all times I can see in the mind's eye, In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones Appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky With all their ancient faces like rain- beaten stones, And all their helms of silver hovering.
I have no question: It is enough, I know what fixed the station Of star and cloud. And knowing all, I cry. . . .
The labor of the alchemists, who were called artist in their day, is a befitting comparison for a deliberate change of style.
I have nothing but the embittered sun; Banished heroic mother moon and vanished, And now that I have come to fifty years I must endure the timid sun.
How can they know Truth flourishes where the student's lamp has shone, And there alone, that have no solitude? So the crowd come they care not what may come. They have loud music, hope every day renewed And heartier loves; that lamp is from the tomb.
For what but eye and ear silence the mind With the minute particulars of mankind?
Give to these children, new from the world, Rest far from men. Is anything better, anything better? Tell us it then.
Surely among a rich man's flowering lawns, Amid the rustle of his planted hills, Life overflows without ambitious pains; And rains down life until the basin spills, And mounts more dizzy high the more it rains As though to choose whatever shape it wills.
Let the new faces play what tricks they will In the old rooms; night can outbalance day, Our shadows rove the garden gravel still, The living seem more shadowy than they.
Death and life were not Till man made up the whole, Made lock, stock and barrel Out of his bitter soul
Come near; I would, before my time to go, Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways: Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days.
Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Boughs have their fruit and blossom At all times of the year; Rivers are running over With red beer and brown beer.
I can exchange opinion with any neighbouring mind, I have as healthy flesh and blood as any rhymer's had, But O! my Heart could bear no more when the upland caught the wind; I ran, I ran, from my love's side because my Heart went mad.
May we two stand, When we are dead, beyond the setting suns, A little from other shades apart, With mingling hair, and play upon one lute.
How could passion run so deep Had I never thought That the crime of being born Blackens all our lot?
And there's a score of duchesses, surpassing womankind, Or who have found a painter to make them so for pay And smooth out stain and blemish with the elegance of his mind: I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day.
The women that I picked spoke sweet and low And yet gave tongue. "Hound voices" were they all.
I would that I were an old beggar Rolling a blind pearl eye, For he cannot see my lady Go gallivanting by.
I see a schoolboy when I think of him, With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window.
. . . you may think I waste my breath Pretending that there can be passion That has more life in it than death
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