HE who confounds the young gods with the brutes,
The origin, not end, his single care,
May he be given naught but earthy roots,
When next he calls for apple, plum or pear.
THE AUTHOR OF ‘THE SHROPSHIRE LAD’
AS if a man had taken to his bed,
Called in his friends, thinking the end had come,
And having uttered words to move the dead,
Had then recovered, well and whole—but dumb.
THE POETRY OF MR W. B. YEATS
IN this dim region, where old phantoms flee
Before the touch, where neither sight nor news
Of our world reach us; here at best we see
Naught but the poet saluting his grave Muse.
‘Æ’
A SHEPHERD, having left the hills to roam,
Sees from afar the cities of great kings,
And so returns enraptured to his home:—
A man apart—who stammers golden things.