 |
| Yeats |
Fasten your hair with a golden pin,
And bind up every wandering tress;
I bade my heart build these poor rhymes;
It worked at them, day out, day in,
Building a sorrowful loveliness
Out of the battles of old times.
You need but lift a pearl-pale hand,
And build up your long hair and sigh;
And all men's hearts must burn and beat;
And candle-like foam on the dim sand,
And stars climbing the dew-dropping sky,
Live but to light your passing feet...
