Give to these children, new from the world, Rest far from men. Is anything better, anything better? Tell us it then:
Us who are old, old and gay, O so old! Thousands of years, thousands of years, If all were told.
I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
THE angels are stooping Above your bed; They weary of trooping With the whimpering dead.
God’s laughing in heaven To see you so good; The shining Seven Are gay with His mood.
I kiss you and kiss you, My pigeon, my own; Ah, how I shall miss you When you have grown.
I RISE in the dawn, and I kneel and blow Till the seed of the fire flicker and glow; And then I must scrub and bake and sweep Till stars are beginning to blink and peep; And the young lie long and dream in their bed Of the matching of ribbons for bosom and head, And their day goes over in idleness, And they sigh if the wind but lift a tress: While I must work because I am old, And the seed of the fire gets feeble and cold.
A PITY beyond all telling Is hid in the heart of love: The folk who are buying and selling; The clouds on their journey above; The cold wet winds ever blowing; And the shadowy hazel grove Where mouse-gray waters are flowing Threaten the head that I love.
THE quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves, The full round moon and the star-laden sky, And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves, Had hid away earth’s old and weary cry.
And then you came with those red mournful lips, And with you came the whole of the world’s tears, And all the trouble of her labouring ships, And all the trouble of her myriad years.
And now the sparrows warring in the eaves, The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky, And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves, Are shaken with earth’s old and weary cry.