The Lover tells of the Rose in his heart
W.B.Yeats
All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out
and old,
The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a
lumbering cart,
The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing the
wintry mould,
Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in
the deeps of my heart.
The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great
to be told;
I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green
knoll apart,
With the earth and the sky and the water, re-made,
like a casket of gold
For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose
in the deeps of my heart.
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