Though leaves are many, the root i
Through all the lying days of my y
I swayed my leaves and flowers in
Now I may wither into the truth.

WE that have done and thought,
That have thought and done,
Must ramble, and thin out
Like milk spilt on a stone.

I HAVE no happiness in dreaming
Nor Avalon the grass-green hollow
Where one found Lancelot crazed a
Nor Uladh, when Naoise had thrown
Nor lands that seem too dim to be

‘ALTHOUGH I’d lie lapped up in
A deal I’d sweat and little earn
If I should live as live the neig
Cried the beggar, Billy Byrne;
‘Stretch bones till the daylight c

AND thus declared that Arab lady
‘Last night, where under the wild
On grassy mattress I had laid me,
Within my arms great Solomon,
I suddenly cried out in a strange

WHEN all works that have
From cradle run to grave
From grave to cradle run instead;
When thoughts that a fool
Has wound upon a spool

O but there is wisdom
In what the sages said;
But stretch that body for a while
And lay down that head
Till I have told the sages

I DREAMED that one had died in
Near no accustomed hand,
And they had nailed the boards abo
The peasants of that land,
Wondering to lay her in that solit

Slim adolescence that a nymph has
Peleus on Thetis stares.
Her limbs are delicate as an eyeli
Love has blinded him with tears;
But Thetis’ belly listens.

I, THE poet William Yeats,
With old mill boards and sea-green
And smithy work from the Gort for
Restored this tower for my wife G
And may these characters remain