Wednesday, January 1, 2014

William Butler Yeats


__To the Rose upon the Rood of Time
By William Butler Yeats

Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days! 
Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways: 
Cuchulain battling with the bitter tide; 
The Druid, grey, wood-nurtured, quiet-eyed,
Who cast round Fergus dreams, and ruin untold;
And thine own sadness, whereof stars, grown old 
In dancing silver-sandalled on the sea, 
Sing in their high and lonely melody. 
Come near, that no more blinded by man's fate,
I find under the boughs of love and hate,
In all poor foolish things that live a day, 
Eternal beauty wandering on her way.

Come near, come near, come near—Ah, leave me still
A little space for the rose-breath to fill!
Lest I no more hear common things that crave; 
The weak worm hiding down in its small cave, 
The field-mouse running by me in the grass, 
And heavy mortal hopes that toil and pass; 
But seek alone to hear the strange things said
By God to the bright hearts of those long dead, 
And learn to chaunt a tongue men do not know. 
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.

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