This great purple butterfly, In the prison of my hands, Has a learning in his eye Not a poor fool understands. Once he lived a schoolmaster With a stark, denying look, A string of scholars went in fear Of his great birch and his great book. Like the clangour of a bell, Sweet and harsh, harsh and sweet, That is how he learnt so well To take the roses for his meat.
Return to the William Butler Yeats library , or . . . Read the next poem; A Poet To His Beloved