The Complete Works. William Butler Yeats

stars in the sky,

      And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves,

      Are shaken with earth’s old and weary cry.

WHEN YOU ARE OLD

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      When you are old and gray and full of sleep,

      And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

      And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

      Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

      How many loved your moments of glad grace,

      And loved your beauty with love false or true;

      But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

      And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

      And bending down beside the glowing bars

      Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled

      And paced upon the mountains overhead

      And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

THE WHITE BIRDS

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      I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea!

      We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can fade and flee;

      And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim of the sky,

      Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that may not die.

      A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew-dabbled, the lily and rose;

      Ah, dream not of them, my beloved, the flame of the meteor that goes,

      Or the flame of the blue star that lingers hung low in the fall of the dew:

      For I would we were changed to white birds on the wandering foam: I and you!

      I am haunted by numberless islands, and many a Danaan shore,

      Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come near us no more;

      Soon far from the rose and the lily, and fret of the flames would we be,

      Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea!

A DREAM OF DEATH

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      I dreamed that one had died in a strange place

      Near no accustomed hand:

      And they had nailed the boards above her face,

      The peasants of that land,

      And, wondering, planted by her solitude

      A cypress and a yew:

      I came, and wrote upon a cross of wood,

      Man had no more to do:

      She was more beautiful than thy first love,

      This lady by the trees:

      And gazed upon the mournful stars above,

      And heard the mournful breeze.

A DREAM OF A BLESSED SPIRIT

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      All the heavy days are over;

      Leave the body’s coloured pride

      Underneath the grass and clover,

      With the feet laid side by side.

      One with her are mirth and duty;

      Bear the gold embroidered dress,

      For she needs not her sad beauty,

      To the scented oaken press.

      Hers the kiss of Mother Mary,

      The long hair is on her face;

      Still she goes with footsteps wary,

      Full of earth’s old timid grace.

      With white feet of angels seven

      Her white feet go glimmering;

      And above the deep of heaven,

      Flame on flame and wing on wing.

THE MAN WHO DREAMED OF FAERYLAND

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      He stood among a crowd at Drumahair;

      His heart hung all upon a silken dress,

      And he had known at last some tenderness,

      Before earth made of him her sleepy care;

      But when a man poured fish into a pile,

      It seemed they raised their little silver heads,

      And sang how day a Druid twilight sheds

      Upon a dim, green, well-beloved isle,

      Where people love beside star-laden seas;

      How Time may never mar their faery vows

      Under the woven roofs of quicken boughs:

      The singing shook him out of his new ease.

      He wandered by the sands of Lisadill;

      His mind ran all on money cares and fears,

      And he had known at last some prudent years

      Before they heaped his grave under the hill;

      But while he passed before a plashy place,

      A lug-worm with its gray and muddy mouth

      Sang how somewhere to north or west or south

      There dwelt a gay, exulting, gentle race;

      And how beneath those three times blessed skies

      A Danaan fruitage makes a shower of moons,

      And as it falls awakens leafy tunes:

      And at that singing he was no more wise.

      He mused beside the well of Scanavin,

      He mused upon his mockers: without fail

      His sudden vengeance were a country tale,

      Now that deep earth has drunk his body in;

      But one small knot-grass growing by the pool

      Told where, ah, little, all-unneeded voice!

      Old Silence bids a lonely folk rejoice,

      And chaplet their calm brows with leafage cool;

      And how, when fades the sea-strewn rose of day,

      A gentle feeling wraps them like a fleece,

      And all their trouble dies into its peace:

      The tale drove his fine angry mood away.

      He slept under the hill of Lugnagall;