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
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
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
Indignant at the fumbling wits, the obscure spite
Of our old Paudeen in his shop, I stumbled blind
Among the stones and thorn trees, under morning light;
Until a curlew cried and in the luminous wind
A curlew answered; and suddenly thereupon I thought
That on the lonely height where all are in God's eye,
There cannot be, confusion of our sound forgot,
A single soul that lacks a sweet crystaline cry.