William Butler Yeats

(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939 / County Dublin / Ireland)

The Lover Tells Of The Rose In His Heart


ALL things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old,
The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart,
The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing the wintry mould,
Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.
The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told;
I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart,
With the earth and the sky and the water, re-made, like a casket of gold
For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

Submitted: Thursday, May 17, 2001
Edited: Thursday, May 17, 2001

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