I
have met them at close of day
Coming
with vivid faces
From
counter or desk among gray
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
To
please a companion
Around
the fire at the club,
Being
certain that they and I
But
lived where motley is worn:
All
changed, changed utterly:
A
terrible beauty is born.
That
woman's days were spent
In
ignorant good-will,
Her
nights in argument
Until
her voice grew shrill.
What
voice more sweet than hers
When,
young and beautiful,
She
rode to harriers?
This
man had kept a school
And
rode our winged horse;
This
other his helper and friend
Was
coming into his force;
He
might have won fame in the end,
So
sensitive his nature seemed,
So
daring and sweet his thought.
This
other man I had dreamed
A
drunken, vainglorious lout.
He
had done most bitter wrong
To
some who are near my heart,
Yet
I number him in the song;
He,
too, has resigned his part
In
the casual comedy;
He,
too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed
utterly:
A
terrible beauty is born.
Hearts
with one purpose alone
Through
summer and winter seem
Enchanted
to a stone
To
trouble the living stream.
The
horse that comes from the road.
The
rider, the birds that range
From
cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute
by minute they change;
A
shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes
minute by minute;
A
horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And
a horse plashes within it;
The
long-legged moor-hens dive,
And
hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute
by minute they live:
The
stone's in the midst of all.
Too
long a sacrifice
Can
make a stone of the heart.
O
when may it suffice?
That
is Heaven's part, our part
To
murmur name upon name,
As
a mother names her child
When
sleep at last has come
On
limbs that had run wild.
What
is it but nightfall?
No,
no, not night but death;
Was
it needless death after all?
For
England may keep faith
For
all that is done and said.
We
know their dream; enough
To
know they dreamed and are dead;
And
what if excess of love
Bewildered
them till they died?
I
write it out in a verse --
MacDonagh
and MacBride
And
Connolly and Pearse
Now
and in time to be,
Wherever
green is worn,
Are
changed, changed utterly:
A
terrible beauty is born.
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