INDIGNANT at the fumbling wits, the obscure spite
Of our old paudeen in his shop, I stumbled blind
Among the stones and thorn-trees, under morning light;
Until a curlew cried and in the luminous wind
A curlew answered; and suddenly thereupon I thought
That on the lonely height where all are in God's eye,
There cannot be, confusion of our sound forgot,
A single soul that lacks a sweet crystalline cry.
More verses by William Butler Yeats
- To The Rose Upon The Rood Of Time
- His Bargain
- He Hears The Cry Of The Sedge
- The Double Vision Of Michael Robartes
- Responsibilities - Introduction