The Lover Tells of the Rose in his Heart
 by W. B Yeats, bn. Dublin 1846
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.




from The Rose, W. B. Yeats.

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