William Butler Yeats
Poem by William Butler Yeats
THROUGH winter-time we call on spring,
And through the spring on summer call,
And when abounding hedges ring
Declare that winter's best of all;
And after that there s nothing good
Because the spring-time has not come --
Nor know that what disturbs our blood
Is but its longing for the tomb.
Comments about The Wheel by William Butler Yeats
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.