Earth in beauty dressed
Awaits returning spring.
All true love must die,
Alter at the best
Into some lesser thing.
Prove that I lie.
Such body lovers have,
Such exacting breath,
That they touch or sigh.
Every touch they give,
Love is nearer death.
Prove that I lie.
More verses by William Butler Yeats
- The Circus Animals' Desertion
- Nineteen Hundred And Nineteen
- Are You Content?
- A Poet To His Beloved
- Mad As The Mist And Snow