THROUGH winter-time we call on spring,
And through the spring on summer call,
And when abounding hedges ring
Declare that winter's best of all;
And after that there s nothing good
Because the spring-time has not come --
Nor know that what disturbs our blood
Is but its longing for the tomb.
More verses by William Butler Yeats
- On Those That Hated 'The Playboy Of The Western World'
- Swift's Epitaph
- King And No King
- The Lover Tells Of The Rose In His Heart
- Parnell