The Author William Butler Yeats

The Wheel


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.


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Return to the William Butler Yeats Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; The White Birds

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