William Butler Yeats
William Butler Yeats
William Butler Yeats
William Butler Yeats
William Butler Yeats
William Butler Yeats
William Butler Yeats
William Butler Yeats
William Butler Yeats
William Butler Yeats
William Butler Yeats
Like the moon her kindness is,
If kindness I may call
What has no comprehension in't,
But is the same for all
As though my sorrow were a scene
Upon a painted wall.
So like a bit of stone I lie
Under a broken tree.
I could recover if I shrieked
My heart's agony
To passing bird, but I am dumb
From human dignity.