William Butler Yeats(1865–1939)
Easter 1916
I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley6 is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
W h a t voice more sweet than hers
W h e n , young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers7
This m a n had kept a school
And rode our winged horse; 8
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other m a n I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.9
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts with one purpose alone
Through s u m m e r and winter seem
E n c h a n t e d to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road,
T h e rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
M i n u t e by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
when may it suffice
That is Heaven's part, our part
To m u r m u r name upon name,
As a mother names her child
W h e n sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
W h a t is it but nightfall
No, no, not night but death;
W a s it needless death after all
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered t h e m till they died
write it out in a verse—
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly,
A terrible beauty is born.
S e p t e m b e r 25, 1916