Author
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Topic: He wishes for the cloths of heaven
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sue g Knowflake Posts: 4253 From: ireland Registered: Sep 2004
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posted November 20, 2005 06:38 AM
By W.B. Yeats Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths Enwrought with golden and silver light The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half-light I would spread the cloths under your feet But I being poor, have only my dreams I have spread my dreams under your feet Tread softly because you tread on my dreams
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Heart--Shaped Cross Knowflake Posts: 1603 From: 11/6/78 11:38am Boston, MA Registered: Aug 2004
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posted November 20, 2005 09:41 AM
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salome Knowflake Posts: 140 From: Registered: Nov 2005
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posted November 20, 2005 10:13 PM
oh sue....how i love yeats!the tenderness in this one lays your heart wide open doesn't it?. awww....love..... thanks for posting this. salome IP: Logged |
salome Knowflake Posts: 140 From: Registered: Nov 2005
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posted November 20, 2005 10:27 PM
The Secret RoseFar-off, most secret, and inviolate Rose, Enfold me in my hour of hours; where those Who sought thee in the Holy Sepulchre, Or in the wine-vat, dwell beyond the stir And tumult of defeated dreams; and deep Among pale eyelids, heavy with the sleep Men have named beauty. Thy great leaves enfold The ancient beards, the helms of ruby and gold Of the crowned Magi; and the king whose eyes Saw the Pierced Hands and Rood of elder rise In Druid vapour and make the torches dim; Till vain frenzy woke and he died; and him Who met Fand walking among flaming dew By a grey shore where the wind never blew, And lost the world and Emer for a kiss; And him who drove the gods out of their liss, And till a hundred morns had flowered red Feasted, and wept the barrows of his dead; And the proud dreaming king who flung the crown And sorrow away, and calling bard and clown Dwelt among wine-stained wanderers in deep woods; And him who sold tillage, and house, and goods, And sought through lands and islands numberless years, Until he found, with laughter and with tears, A woman of so shining loveliness That men threshed corn at midnight by a tress, A little stolen tress. I, too, await The hour of thy great wind of love and hate. When shall the stars be blown about the sky, Like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die? Surely thine hour has come, thy great wind blows, Far-off, most secret, and inviolate Rose? william butler yeats IP: Logged | |