![](\"https:\/\/stickpersonpoetry.com\/images\/032013\/0331.png\")
<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
0331
\nP\u00f3g mo th\u00f3in sassenach<\/p>\n
Easter, 1916<\/strong> I have met them at close of day That woman’s days were spent Hearts with one purpose alone Too long a sacrifice 0331 P\u00f3g mo th\u00f3in sassenach Easter, 1916 By William Butler Yeats 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 … Continue reading 0331<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3],"tags":[90,68,93,78,39,89,29,77,122,109,55,86],"class_list":["post-224","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-classic","tag-colors","tag-drinking","tag-fire","tag-flags","tag-holidays","tag-horses","tag-ireland","tag-love","tag-maps","tag-thought","tag-uk","tag-women"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/stickpersonpoetry.com\/spp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/224"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/stickpersonpoetry.com\/spp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/stickpersonpoetry.com\/spp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stickpersonpoetry.com\/spp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stickpersonpoetry.com\/spp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=224"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/stickpersonpoetry.com\/spp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/224\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2468,"href":"https:\/\/stickpersonpoetry.com\/spp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/224\/revisions\/2468"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/stickpersonpoetry.com\/spp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=224"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stickpersonpoetry.com\/spp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=224"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stickpersonpoetry.com\/spp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=224"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nBy William Butler Yeats<\/p>\n
\nComing with vivid faces
\nFrom counter or desk among grey
\nEighteenth-century houses.
\nI have passed with a nod of the head
\nOr polite meaningless words,
\nOr have lingered awhile and said
\nPolite meaningless words,
\nAnd thought before I had done
\nOf a mocking tale or a gibe
\nTo please a companion
\nAround the fire at the club,
\nBeing certain that they and I
\nBut lived where motley is worn:
\nAll changed, changed utterly:
\nA terrible beauty is born.<\/p>\n
\nIn ignorant good-will,
\nHer nights in argument
\nUntil her voice grew shrill.
\nWhat voice more sweet than hers
\nWhen, young and beautiful,
\nShe rode to harriers?
\nThis man had kept a school
\nAnd rode our wing\u00e8d horse;
\nThis other his helper and friend
\nWas coming into his force;
\nHe might have won fame in the end,
\nSo sensitive his nature seemed,
\nSo daring and sweet his thought.
\nThis other man I had dreamed
\nA drunken, vainglorious lout.
\nHe had done most bitter wrong
\nTo some who are near my heart,
\nYet I number him in the song;
\nHe, too, has resigned his part
\nIn the casual comedy;
\nHe, too, has been changed in his turn,
\nTransformed utterly:
\nA terrible beauty is born.<\/p>\n
\nThrough summer and winter seem
\nEnchanted to a stone
\nTo trouble the living stream.
\nThe horse that comes from the road,
\nThe rider, the birds that range
\nFrom cloud to tumbling cloud,
\nMinute by minute they change;
\nA shadow of cloud on the stream
\nChanges minute by minute;
\nA horse-hoof slides on the brim,
\nAnd a horse plashes within it;
\nThe long-legged moor-hens dive,
\nAnd hens to moor-cocks call;
\nMinute by minute they live:
\nThe stone’s in the midst of all.<\/p>\n
\nCan make a stone of the heart.
\nO when may it suffice?
\nThat is Heaven’s part, our part
\nTo murmur name upon name,
\nAs a mother names her child
\nWhen sleep at last has come
\nOn limbs that had run wild.
\nWhat is it but nightfall?
\nNo, no, not night but death;
\nWas it needless death after all?
\nFor England may keep faith
\nFor all that is done and said.
\nWe know their dream; enough
\nTo know they dreamed and are dead;
\nAnd what if excess of love
\nBewildered them till they died?
\nI write it out in a verse\u2014
\nMacDonagh and MacBride
\nAnd Connolly and Pearse
\nNow and in time to be,
\nWherever green is worn,
\nAre changed, changed utterly:
\nA terrible beauty is born.<\/p>\n\nTweet<\/a><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"