Is It Poetry
When Pearls Are Fed To Swine
Swollen, moist they are bloated.
Some even move from the last.
Wetting of the green broad leaves.
Every night I come home and I pea.
In the same way.
Shaking in hands on my knees.
His the swine his is massive,
even recounting seven you are having.
The snow at first and I glanced.
Up to my knees,
out of reach of my closer pocket.
Pearls being squeezed,
of all their green by the swine.
Ripe the oysters all clustered, weeping.
One is bitter and placed far beyond,
eight less than nine for the having.
What you have learned.
The other just popped in his mouth.
Pink now drips out from both sides.
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Comments about this poem (When Pearls Are Fed To Swine by Is It Poetry )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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