THIS night has been so strange that it seemed
As if the hair stood up on my head.
From going-down of the sun I have dreamed
That women laughing, or timid or wild,
In rustle of lace or silken stuff,
Climbed up my creaking stair. They had read
All I had rhymed of that monstrous thing
Returned and yet unrequited love.
They stood in the door and stood between
My great wood lectern and the fire
Till I could hear their hearts beating:
One is a harlot, and one a child
That never looked upon man with desire.
And one, it may be, a queen.
More verses by William Butler Yeats
- He Thinks Of Those Who Have Spoken Evil Of His Beloved
- He Thinks Of His Past Greatness When A Part Of The Constellations Of Heaven
- The Everlasting Voices
- The Dedication To A Book Of Stories Selected From The Irish Novelists
- Her Praise