The Wheel
THROUGH winter-time we call on spring, / And through the spring on summer call,
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.
More poems by William Butler Yeats
He Tells Of A Valley Full Of Lovers
I DREAMED that I stood in a valley, and amid sighs, / For happy lovers passed two by two where I stood;
What Then?
HIS chosen comrades thought at school / He must grow a famous man;
The Withering Of The Boughs
I CRIED when the moon was mutmuring to the birds: / 'Let peewit call and curlew cry where they will,