I have met them at close of day
\n
\nComing with vivid faces
\n
\nFrom counter or desk among grey
\n
\nEighteenth-century houses.
\n
\nI have passed with a nod of the head
\n
\nOr polite meaningless words,
\n
\nOr have lingered awhile and said
\n
\nPolite meaningless words,
\n
\nAnd thought before I had done
\n
\nOf a mocking tale or a gibe
\n
\nTo please a companion
\n
\nAround the fire at the club,
\n
\nBeing certain that they and I
\n
\nBut lived where motley is worn:
\n
\nAll changed, changed utterly:
\n
\nA terrible beauty is born.<\/p>\n
That woman’s days were spent
\n
\nIn ignorant good-will,
\n
\nHer nights in argument
\n
\nUntil her voice grew shrill.
\n
\nWhat voice more sweet than hers
\n
\nWhen, young and beautiful,
\n
\nShe rode to harriers?
\n
\nThis man had kept a school
\n
\nAnd rode our winged horse;
\n
\nThis other his helper and friend
\n
\nWas coming into his force;
\n
\nHe might have won fame in the end,
\n
\nSo sensitive his nature seemed,
\n
\nSo daring and sweet his thought.
\n
\nThis other man I had dreamed
\n
\nA drunken, vainglorious lout.
\n
\nHe had done most bitter wrong
\n
\nTo some who are near my heart,
\n
\nYet I number him in the song;
\n
\nHe, too, has resigned his part
\n
\nIn the casual comedy;
\n
\nHe, too, has been changed in his turn,
\n
\nTransformed utterly:
\n
\nA terrible beauty is born.<\/p>\n
Hearts with one purpose alone
\n
\nThrough summer and winter seem
\n
\nEnchanted to a stone
\n
\nTo trouble the living stream.
\n
\nThe horse that comes from the road.
\n
\nThe rider, the birds that range
\n
\nFrom cloud to tumbling cloud,
\n
\nMinute by minute they change;
\n
\nA shadow of cloud on the stream
\n
\nChanges minute by minute;
\n
\nA horse-hoof slides on the brim,
\n
\nAnd a horse plashes within it;
\n
\nThe long-legged moor-hens dive,
\n
\nAnd hens to moor-cocks call;
\n
\nMinute by minute they live:
\n
\nThe stone’s in the midst of all.<\/p>\n
Too long a sacrifice
\n
\nCan make a stone of the heart.
\n
\nO when may it suffice?
\n
\nThat is Heaven’s part, our part
\n
\nTo murmur name upon name,
\n
\nAs a mother names her child
\n
\nWhen sleep at last has come
\n
\nOn limbs that had run wild.
\n
\nWhat is it but nightfall?
\n
\nNo, no, not night but death;
\n
\nWas it needless death after all?
\n
\nFor England may keep faith
\n
\nFor all that is done and said.
\n
\nWe know their dream; enough
\n
\nTo know they dreamed and are dead;
\n
\nAnd what if excess of love
\n
\nBewildered them till they died?
\n
\nI write it out in a verse –
\n
\nMacDonagh and MacBride
\n
\nAnd Connolly and Pearse
\n
\nNow and in time to be,
\n
\nWherever green is worn,
\n
\nAre changed, changed utterly:
\n
\nA terrible beauty is born.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I have met them at close of day Coming with vivid faces From counter or desk among grey Eighteenth-century houses. I have passed with a nod of the head Or polite meaningless words, Or have lingered awhile and said Polite meaningless words, And thought before I had done Of a mocking tale or a gibe…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":165,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[265,144,366,26,184],"class_list":["post-623","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-read-this","tag-easter","tag-history","tag-ireland","tag-politics","tag-religion"],"yoast_head":"\n