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THE ROSE 1893 By William Butler Yeats poem lyrics. Easy summary meaning. Selected sweat best popular poem for School and college student

THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN IN PARADISE

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THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN IN PARADISE

THE ROSE 1893 By William Butler Yeats poem lyrics. Easy summary meaning. Selected sweat best popular poem for School and college student

 

 

THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN IN PARADISE

 

ALL the heavy days are over;

 

Leave the body's coloured pride

 

Underneath the grass and clover,

 

With the feet laid side by side.

 

Bathed in flaming founts of duty

 

She'll not ask a haughty dress;

 

Carry all that mournful beauty

To the scented oaken press.

Did the kiss of Mother Mary

 

Put that music in her face?

 

Yet she goes with footstep wary,

 

Full of earth's old timid grace.

 

'Mong the feet of angels seven What a dancer glimmering!

 

All the heavens bow down to Heaven, Flame to flame and wing to wing.

 

 

 

 

WHO GOES WITH FERGUS?

 

 

WHO will go drive with Fergus now,

 

And pierce the deep wood's woven shade,

 

And dance upon the level shore?

 

Young man, lift up your russet brow,

 

And lift your tender eyelids, maid,

 

And brood on hopes and fear no more.

 

And no more turn aside and brood

 

Upon love's bitter mystery;

 

For Fergus rules the brazen cars,

 

And rules the shadows of the wood,

 

And the white breast of the dim sea

 

And all dishevelled wandering stars.

 

 

 

THE LAMENTATION OF THE OLD PENSIONER

 

ALTHOUGH I shelter from the rain

 

Under a broken tree,

 

My chair was nearest to the fire

 

In every company

 

That talked of love or politics,

 

Ere Time transfigured me.

 

Though lads are making pikes again

 

For some conspiracy,

 

And crazy rascals rage their fill

 

At human tyranny,

 

My contemplations are of Time

 

That has transfigured me.

 

There's not a woman turns her face

 

Upon a broken tree,

 

And yet the beauties that I loved

 

Are in my memory;

 

I spit into the face of Time

 

That has transfigured me.

 

 

TO SOME I HAVE TALKED WITH BY THE FIRE

 

 

WHILE I wrought out these fitful Danaan rhymes,

 

My heart would brim with dreams about the times

 

When we bent down above the fading coals

 

And talked of the dark folk who live in souls

 

Of passionate men, like bats in the dead trees;

 

And of the wayward twilight companies

 

Who sigh with mingled sorrow and content,

 

Because their blossoming dreams have never bent

 

Under the fruit of evil and of good:

 

And of the embattled flaming multitude

 

Who rise, wing above wing, flame above flame,

 

And, like a storm, cry the Ineffable Name,

And with the clashing of their sword-blades make

 

A rapturous music, till the morning break

 

And the white hush end all but the loud beat

 

Of their long wings, the flash of their white feet.


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